Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

After the initial imprecations, or so she assumed them to be, Cindie decided two things. One, she really needed to learn Welsh, and two, the distraction of opening up rooms could do Mistral no harm whatsoever. She explained that she didn’t know if people would start arriving tomorrow or simply show up for the funeral on Monday but Mistral had to agree that her polite suggestion that they prepare some bedrooms for any Sunday arrivals was the best course.

Cindie started in the kitchen taking stock and refrigerating or freezing anything that needed it. As for quantity, they had enough to feed several armies and their families. No one had turned up today but apparently when the word spread yesterday people mobilized. She toyed with the idea of suggesting outside help but knew that it would not be welcomed. They would manage. Actually, the task was not as overwhelming as it might have been. Though most of the place had been unoccupied it hadn’t been going to rack and ruin. The linens were clean and had been laid by with herbs by someone with foresight. Most of the furnishings were covered in dust sheets which could be removed and folded carefully leaving little dusting to be done. Working together they became quite became very adept at this procedure. There was a hoover (that would have sucked up small children if there had been any foolish enough to get in its way) which Cindie managed to wrestle into submission while Mistral laid fires and changed light bulbs. It was a busy day which was just what was needed.

Cindie had finished tidying bathrooms and was staring at the tub she’d just cleaned and considering that a long hot soaking bath would be very welcome. It was just as well the food wielding neighbors had come and gone as she didn’t feel fit company for any well meaning condoners. Of course, she supposed, they’d be here for Mistral and not her, anyway. She sneezed for the millionth time and wondered why she hadn’t thought to toss in her allergy medication when she was packing.

“Bless you.” A handkerchief appeared in the air in front of her.

“Thank you.” She snatched it out of the air and wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “It’s the dust.”

“So I gathered.” She turned to face Mistral who had just deposited an armful of towels on the table thing in the corner. “I think you’ve done enough.” His expression was bland.

Cindie said nothing but took in his appearance. They’d been at it all day with their only break being a hurried late lunch. She knew she was a mess, hair awry and clothes rumpled under the apron she had donned. Said apron was definitely destined for the laundry hamper. His hair was perhaps a bit mussed but otherwise he was spotless. Most vexing.

“I was thinking…” he paused, as if he were still processing these thoughts, “Since we may have guests tomorrow…” Cindie waited. “Perhaps it would be best if we said our goodbyes tonight.”

It took her a moment to realize what Mistral meant. At first she thought he was tossing her out. As bad as that would be what he had in mind would be infinitely worse. The day hadn’t been exactly a thrill. Cleaning house, even with a man whom she considered the best looking one on the planet, wasn’t her idea of a fun time. Détente had been declared but the strain between them told. And this was something she hadn’t expected. She sighed. He was right. She’d called Dev with the particulars: Services at St. David’s Monday morning with the grave side rituals to follow immediately thereafter in the church cemetery. People would want to drive out on Sunday and be here on Monday for the funeral and they would need to be here to welcome them. Cindie had told Dev to give out her mobile number so she could redirect any lost sheep that made a wrong turn. So that meant to do this privately they should go tonight.

Cindie didn’t want to explain to Mistral that right at the moment she didn’t much feel the need to say goodbye to the woman who had left her son with a truck load of guilt for a crime he hadn’t committed. While Cindie wasn’t convinced there had ever been a crime, she was convinced if there was one it had never been his. But somehow with his mother’s death he had taken it on and that made her angry with the deceased Mrs. Mistral. Very awkward, that.

One look at Patrick’s face erased these thoughts. “Of course. I’ll need to change.” He gave her one of his enigmatic half smiles. Her anger flared again, this time directed at him, though she didn’t know why. “I’ll meet you downstairs.” She moved past him and went to take a quick shower and change into something more suitable.

When she went downstairs he was waiting for her. He had on different clothes as well. They drove to the funeral home in silence. It wasn’t terribly late but Cindie thought that most businesses would be closed at this hour. Then she supposed not and wondered why there hadn’t been visiting hours for his mother. Or maybe there were and he wasn’t going. There were some things even she wouldn’t ask.

They arrived at Ivor Muesgwyn & Daughter Funeral Home. Cindie had expected it to be half deserted and quiet. This was not the case. There was apparently another family dealing with this inevitability, however in their case it was being dealt with in the manner of a wake. They walked in the main doors and found themselves in the midst of people spilling from one of the side rooms. Mistral took up Cindie’s arm and propelled her a room at the back. At the threshold of this room he paused, looked over his shoulder and took a deep breath.

“I don’t know why that’s going on tonight. Mr. Arthfael’s funeral is Monday as well. They shouldn’t be here until tomorrow night.”

“Apparently Mr. Arthfael was well loved.” Cindie smiled at a pair of elderly men who were clinging to each other laughing and crying simultaneously, apparently in the throes of some colourful reminiscence regarding their late friend. She had spoken without thinking and realized the room at which they were poised held a coffin which she could see in the subdued lighting at the back of the room.

Mistral said nothing and Cindie, declining to dig the hole any deeper, didn’t either. Her hand, however, reached for his and the looks they exchanged said the ‘I’m sorry’ and the ‘It’s all right’ that weren’t spoken. They walked into the room together and stood in front of the coffin, hand in hand. It was one of those interludes when time ceases to have any dominion. They each said their silent prayers and goodbyes and they left the room as they had entered it. Cindie was surprised to discover that they’d been there nearly three quarters of an hour. They walked back through the crowd still noisily sharing their grief and remembrances, and returned to his car. He paused there after unlocking her door and opening it.

“Thank you.” It was all he said.

A sudden blast of wind rattles the glass in the panes, causing Mary Anne and Brandon to flinch against each other in surprise, then laugh together, a bit embarrassed at their state of nerves. The gust moderates itself to a low, probing whistle at the doorframe, and Mary Anne shivers a little, glad of Brandon’s encircling arm. “ A night of gnashings and enormous moan . . .” she murmurs, against a quick jolt of superstitious awe. The bad news they have just received . . .

“What is that from, Mary Anne?”

Brandon’s question restores her to calm. “It’s from a poem by Richard Wilbur,” she replies.

Brandon watches, knowing what will happen. He has seen it before on the set, that look of rapt concentration as Mary Anne seems to gaze inward—let her retrieve the first line of what she must know, and the rest will follow.

“Seeing the snowman standing all alone
In dusk and cold is more than he can bear.
The small boy weeps to hear the wind prepare
A night of gnashings and enormous moan.
His tearful sight can hardly reach to where
The pale-faced figure with bitumen eyes
Returns him such a god-forsaken stare
As outcast Adam gave to Paradise.

The man of snow is, nonetheless, content,
Having no wish to go inside and die.
Still, he is moved to see the youngster cry.
Though frozen water is his element,
He melts enough to drop from one soft eye
A trickle of the purest rain, a tear
For the child at the bright pane surrounded by
Such warmth, such light, such love, and so much fear.”

Brandon raises an eyebrow. “This man Wilbur deserves to be better known, if he can write such things. That was eloquent.”

“He is quite well known, as a poet and as a translator.” Mary Anne stares at the fire. “And so much fear. That’s it, Christopher. I’m upset for Mistral, of course, but I feel afraid, too, and that’s what I don’t understand.”

“No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”

“Ah. Well, I see I’m not the only one who can turn a quotation, then.”

They are both smiling, now: Mary Anne with fondness for this man who knew exactly the right response to put her at ease, and Brandon with the pleased consciousness of having done so. Stretching out a little to ease his long legs, he settles back on the sofa, propping himself against the corner cushions. “Mary Anne, it’s natural that you should be upset—you’ve had a shock, after all.”

“We knew it was going to happen. Mistral warned us himself.”

“Yes, but now it has happened. It is real, and it hurts you because you love him—“

Her eyes are on him, wide with alarm. “Christopher, you can’t still think--!”

“No, no, wait a moment. I did not say you were in love with him; I said that you love him, and you do, don’t you? He’s your friend. He is mine as well.” Brandon is quiet for moment, thinking back over the years at the set. Mistral: there from the beginning, relishing his role as supreme villain of the cast, shrouded in a secrecy that is partly studio-generated for the publicity value and partly his own iron-gated sense of privacy. An extraordinary talent and everyone knows it, including Mistral—and yet Brandon cannot remember a single day of work, a single scene, in which Mistral’s behaviour to him had been less than professional, cordial . . . and now, they are friends. It is as simple as that. “Empathy has its pitfalls, my dearest. You can’t help thinking of yourself in his place and what you would feel. Is that what’s frightening you?”

“I think . . . partly.” Mary Anne closes her eyes, forcing back tears before they can form. “I . . . my mother and father are still alive, you see. And what I’ll do when anything happens to them . . . I don’t know . . .”

“Come here.”

Gratefully, Mary Anne moves over on the sofa close to Brandon and leans back against him as his hands settle on her shoulders, moving in slow, comforting circles. “Do you know, Mary Anne, that reminds me of something I saw—oh, years ago. It was an interview with Mr. Patrick Stewart—“

She cannot help smiling at that. “ Mr. Patrick Stewart, indeed. Just as if you don’t see him all the time at these parties and galas and such.” Mary Anne turns her head to smile over her shoulder at Brandon. “When you are going to introduce me to him?”

Brandon does not pause in his caresses. “I shall never know him well enough to make that introduction, my dearest.” A subdued growl, right at her ear. “Not when I know your weakness for seductive baritones.”

“You should know it, if anyone does. Not jealous, are you?”

“I certainly shall be, if you go flying off in some starship. Now, where was I? Oh, yes.” The gentle push and release of his index fingers at the nape of her neck. “It was an interview Mr. Stewart gave, right after he lost his mother. I thought of it because he said he was frightened, too, or words to that effect—that no matter how old you are when you lose a parent, you think, ‘Who’s going to take care of me?’ I would imagine Mistral is feeling something of the same thing, right now.”

Mary Anne thinks it over. “That makes sense. But there’s something else, too. I wonder if . . . well, you noticed that something seems to be wrong between Cindie and Mistral. And you thought there was something going on with me and Mistral, and I just wonder if Cindie saw something and thought the same thing, and if I’m the cause of the trouble . . . I’d just hate to have her thinking that of me. Especially at a time like this. He’s going to need her.” “Who’s going to take care of me?” I can just see the look Mistral would give anybody who thought he needed taking care of . . . but if I know Cindie, she’ll take care of him whether he wants it or not.

“Cindie is a sensible woman.”

“Things like this don’t always yield to reason, Christopher.”

“No, but I don’t think she’ll be at your throat or anything of the sort. Besides, I’ll be right there with you. I don’t expect any trouble, but surely the two of us together . . .”

“I’m so glad you’ll be with me. I’d hate the thought of going by myself.”

Reluctantly, Brandon glances at his watch. “And speaking of going . . . I really must be, now. You need your sleep, especially if we’re to make an early start tomorrow. When is John coming for the dogs?”

“Around seven-thirty or eight, he said.”

“Very well. Ring me in the morning when you’re ready, when you’ve packed and all. I’ll come straight around for you and we can be on our way. Now, then . . .”

The litter of the impromptu picnic remains to be cleared away, but the work goes quickly—especially as Brandon insists on doing the lion’s share of it. In hardly any time at all he is shouldering into his coat, but pauses long enough to envelop Mary Anne in a hug that wraps the folds of the coat about her, a cocoon of warmth and security from which she is loath to emerge. Finally, she steps back. “Thank you, Christopher.”

“For . . . ?”

“You know. For letting me tell you everything like that. And you don’t laugh at me. I can’t tell you what that means to me.”

But she feels everything, you know. Takes things hard, twice as hard as most, I believe. In this, The Director had spoken the truth, and Brandon takes a long, searching look at the woman before him, who trusts him with all that she feels, all these things that she takes so hard.

“You may think of it,” he says at last, “as my way of telling you what you mean to me. Good night, Mary Anne. Sleep well, and I will see you in the morning.”

He is gone, then. The wind has died down, and Mary Anne stands in the doorway, listening to the ring of his footsteps on the wrought-iron stair before carefully closing and locking the door and making certain the bolt is in place. A moment to shut off the fire without disturbing the beagles and then, these important matters attended to, Mary Anne steps into her bedroom and within moments is out of her clothes, into her nightdress, and under the covers, imagining the sleep that is coming to encircle her like a pair of warm arms, an embrace to protect her from the bitter cold . . .

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Friday

Gwenevere’s cast was propped on a chair and pillow in Snape’s den as she quietly penned lab reviews, working exclusively from Severus’s Latin notes. She was extremely efficient and enjoyed it tremendously-- it was more like relaxation than work as it massaged her acute interest in potions making. She also enjoyed the endearing insights and how each student comprehended the potions making process.

They worked until just after noon. Severus asked Gwenevere to join him in the great hall for lunch, as he needed to talk to several of the professors afterward concerning next week’s classes and didn’t want to leave her alone. The Azkaban potion would require considerable time on Wednesday and Thursday so he needed a clear schedule. Last week’s double potions classes would switch to transfiguration, charms, and herbology.

She reluctantly agreed, not wishing to draw attention to her cast. They arrived early and took their places at the staff tables. Gwenevere’s cast had hardened nicely and allowed her to walk to the great hall with only the occasional aid of Severus’s arm. The hall consisted of mostly staff members and students who were eating on the run as various activities pulled them away. Gwenevere dined on a light meal of country vegetable soup and smoked trout salad. Her large goblet was filled with sparkling water with a wedge of lemon. Professor Snape’s meal was much more substantial.

As they finished lunch, Severus let Gwenevere know that Professor McGonagall had an appointment to meet him in a few minutes. Gwenevere would stay seated at the table and wait for him to finish his meeting before returning to the second floor. Professor McGonagall did indeed enter the Great Hall as planned; however, she looked rather frantic as she searched for Professor Snape. She hurried over to the far end of the table and summoned him to his house immediately. Apparently, there was some type of disturbance and Professor Snape was urgently needed. He turned towards Gwenevere and she motioned him to go and not to worry about her. He fled quickly and Gwenevere was left in the nearly deserted hall with the small potions book that she had brought with her as an afterthought and a fresh pot of tea.

"Well, maybe I should have said a baby," Joya flashed her dimples. "And I meant my baby. I've been thinking about it for a while, George, but I think I'm ready. I want to have a child."

He started to hyperventilate. A child? Where on earth had that idea come from? A child. A small human being that she would carry for nine months and then give birth to. A baby. An infant. She was mad. It would disrupt everything. A child. A boy or a girl. They had work to do, contracts to fulfill. How could she even contemplate the thought? A kid. A toddler. What would the Director say? A toddler. An infant. They were messy, demanding, loud, wet. A tot. A baby. Oh, Gawd....

"You're awfully quiet, George. I know you have an opinion." Joya sipped on her champagne. "Come on, now. Be honest. Do you think I can handle it?"

He pulled himself together with a jerk - but just barely. "Are you crazy? Why would you want to get...to become...I mean...to have..." He was painfully aware that he was unravelling. Then a suspicion crept into his mind. "Why would you want to do that to me?"

It was her turn to stare. "To you?"

"Yes, to me!" He'd got his breathing under control again. A strong sense of injustice began to burn in his chest. "We've had some good times together for a few years but it's nothing more than that. You're great in bed - don't get me wrong - you're probably the best ever. But to suggest that we've got anything more...A baby! No, no way, never. If that's your game, then it's over."

She blinked but seemed incapable of speech. For some reason the sight of her clear blue eyes wide open infuriated him even more. He picked up a glass of champagne, tossed it back in one gulp and set the glass down on the table again. He stood up.

"I'll send someone around to pick up the clothes I have at your place and drop off the stuff you've kept at mine." He paused and looked down at her. She just stared back, her face carefully blank. He frowned, needing to get a reaction. "If you need any references, don't hesitate to use my name. Any man would be glad to have you."

Joya's silence was chilling. George bent over and seized her hair, pulling her closer for a deep, thorough, invasive kiss that should have established male ownership to everyone in the restaurant. She gave no indication of a response. Frustrated, he released her and walked out of the restaurant.

Halfway across the lobby, he stopped, then crept back to the doorway and peered inside. Joya was still sitting at their table. As he watched she lifted a napkin to her lips and wiped it forcefully across her mouth.

*fzzzzzzsshshshshshhhhhhh*

*raises beautiful crystal flute swiped from MA's place*

Brandon looks up quickly when he hears Mary Anne’s sharp reply of, “Yes--indeed. Would you like to speak with him?” A pause, and her expression softens. “Of course. I’m sorry I snapped at you. It’s just so horrid, that’s all.” Another silence. “Yes. Here he is.” Wordlessly, she holds out the phone and Brandon steps forward to retrieve it as Mary Anne returns to the sofa and sinks down on it, staring numbly at the litter of the impromptu picnic on the coffee table and listening to the one side of the conversation that she can hear.

“Yes . . . quite early, I should think. Do you know if anything is being sent from the cast . . . I see.”

Another long interval. Mary Anne looks down at Nelson and Pinky, sprawled on the floor, sunk into the blissful depths of Beagle Oblivion, that near-boneless state induced by a good feed and plenty of loving attention from their human pack members. I wish I could sleep like that—especially tonight, but I know that isn’t going to happen. Brandon’s voice again, interrupting her reverie. “And did she say how he’s taking it? Well, that’s like him, I suppose . . .no, you’re right, Dev, there isn’t much we can do except be there, and we shall certainly do that. Yes. We will see you then.” Brandon sets the receiver in its cradle and returns to the sofa, seating himself next to Mary Anne, who is watching the dogs with a sad little smile.

“Look at them. Not a care in the world.”

Brandon looks, and agrees that their repose is certainly . . . profound. “Yes, so it appears to us. Especially with an owner like John Middleton, life is very good for them. And yet, they dream. You saw them, didn’t you, trying to run in their sleep?”

Mary Anne nods. “They say we dream because things in our mind are too complicated to sort while we’re awake. It makes you wonder, doesn’t it? What could be so complicated about being a beagle? Yet, as you say, they dream.”

“Yes. They dream; they learn; they play. They can love being praised; they can grieve . . .”

The sound escapes her before she can choke it back. Yielding to a sudden impulse, Mary Anne reaches out and wraps her arms around Brandon’s waist, holding him tightly. “Don’t leave. Please, stay a little.”

She can feel Brandon smoothing her hair, feel his warmth as he breathes in the scent of it and kisses the top of her head. “My dearest, I have no intention of leaving. Not yet, at any rate. Not after we’ve had such bad news. There . . .”

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Thursday

They again saw no one as they made their way back to the second floor. They went to Gwenevere’s quarters and Dobby had very recently left the tea tray in the sitting room for them. They sipped tea and ate hobnob biscuits while discussing the lab work to be done after breakfast.

“Severus, it’s time for my bath now, would you be so kind as to help me?” she asked.

“It will be my pleasure.” He stood up and placed the anti ghost spell on her perimeters. “We don’t need any unwelcome company.” He said with an air of disgust.

He left Gwenevere to start the bath water. As the water filled the tub, Snape produced a small green bottle and poured the contents into the water flow and then came back for Gwenevere. The cast was still soft so he carried her to the bathroom and set her down. She hopped several times and leant on the double basins for balance. Snape regarded the clingy elasticized fabric and considered Gwenevere. She was very sore and tender as the result of the accident and he didn’t wish to hurt her while peeling her out of the spandex. With a flick of his wand she was undressed. She stood like a goddess before him. He knelt down and examined the large purple bruise and abrasion on her hip. His face registered outrage and sorrow.

He turned off taps and helped her into the tub, keeping the cast perfectly dry as he did so. The hot water felt wonderful to her and she reveled in it, closing her eyes and sinking low in the tub. Her cast was resting comfortably on the far edge and her aches and pains seemed to melt away.
He watched as Gwenevere washed her hair and completed her morning routine, he could not help but wonder, with growing contempt, why she allowed nearly headless Nick to evade her privacy. Although he could not see any of her luscious anatomy above the high sides of the tub, she was certainly beautiful enough to incite vivid thoughts through clouds of fragrant steam.

“…Severus? Gwenevere repeated. He flinched back into reality.

“I’m sorry?” he said.

“Deep in thought were you?” she said, smiling across the room at him. “Erm…yes. I guess I was.” He replied.

“Would you please help me to rinse my hair now?” she said, pulling the plug and hanging it on the taps.

He moved over beside her and secured his sleeves out of the way. Last night’s snakebite injury was healed considerably by the morning, but was plainly visible. He supported her head under the running water so that she could concentrate on keeping her foot dry on the edge of the tub. She closed her eyes and felt his strong hands manipulate her long weighty hair to allow the suds to rinse free. He turned off taps and helped her out of the tub, wrapping her in the white fluffy towel.

They stood eye to eye and suddenly the atmosphere in the small steamy room became close. Snape steadied her with his arms and leant in to kiss her. She met him and they shared a lingering kiss as diffused pink sparks quietly crackled in the steam. Their explosive attraction for each other was showing no sign of quieting in the least after a month of time but was actually accelerating as they each learned more about the other. Gwenevere understood why the rabbits were seldom seen outside of closed doors in Sir Nicholas’s sprit world.

He helped her into her bedroom to dress. She finished drying and with his help, slipped into a simple black form fitting pull over dress of lightweight material that accentuated her fine curves. The stiffness and pain in her limbs was completely relieved by the magical bath, and her hip was almost healed. Gwenevere sat in a chair by the window. He watched as she slowly brushed her long hair while the sun was streaming in brightly through the cathedral window lighting the strands like silver threads on black velvet.

“I think I’m ready to work on the reviews now if you are, Severus.” She said. He went to her and helped her up. “Thank you for your help this morning.” She said, smiling gently at him.

Claudia and Spike

Spike jogged through the Tardis, looking into rooms with open doors, and skidding to a halt as he reached the sick bay. Claudia could see him slide and twist, his arms in the air as if completing a dance move. His coat flaring out behind him as he stopped, and he leant on the edges of the entrance, a hand propping himself on each side of the doorway.

She was on the sickbay bed, the back tilted upwards so she was in a reclined sitting position, she was wearing a long t-shirt, and her legs were bent at the knees and bare.

The Doctor had his back to the doorway, and was concentrating on preparing his instruments. He was clad in what looked like the protective gear of a bomb disposal expert. Headgear with a thick, clear visor, and thick padding on his chest and arms. “I wouldn’t cross that threshold if you know what’s good for you, my boy,” he said, carrying on without turning.

“You said you were going to remove a chip, I know a bit about those.” Spike started.

“Really? Into computers are you? This might be a bit different.”

“I had a chip, me,” he said. The Doctor turned to look at him, and Claudia stared, open mouthed as Spike tapped the side of his head.

“Yep, only in a different place. Got it out, thank goodness.”

“Who put it there?”

“Who put yours in your leg?”

“HE did, the Interrogator, or THEY did, I’m not sure which. Or what it’s for.”

“And THEY are...the Government? Nazis? A major cosmetics company?”

“Hell, I don’t know. THEY are who HE works for. You never actually see THEM. That’s why they’re known as THEY in the first place.”

“Me too. A ‘THEY’ put mine in. Though it started to go wrong, seems I wasn’t suppose to live that long after they inserted it, so THEY didn’t seem to mind that the thing would start to deteriorate, and short circuit my brain. Drove me loopy there for a while.”

“But you’re all right now?”

Spike took a step into the room, and leant his head sideways, cracking his neck. “Got it taken out. All better.”

“I warned you to keep out,” said the Doctor, waving a pen-like object in Spike’s direction. “I will have to close the door in a moment, its blast proof, you see. Just in case anything goes wrong.”

“Well, that’s what I wanted to say. I don’t know if it’ll help here, of course. But mine wasn’t booby-trapped, it just sort of started to dissolve. I suppose so it wouldn’t be traceable later.”

“Very X-Files,” Claudia looked at him, arms crossed over her chest and eyes narrowed. “You’re very talkative about yourself, all of a sudden,” she said, suspiciously. “Why are you telling us this about yourself, now. And what was your chip for?”

“To help you, bint,” he gave her a look. “And we haven’t actually had too much talkin’ time, now have we? Well, you have, but I didn’t have a chance to get much of a word in edgewise.”

If she’d had a pillow, she’d have thrown it. “AND? Yours was for…?” she repeated.

“To control me, to stop me doing things. To make me do others, I suppose. The usual.”

“Exactly what we surmise this is for,” said the Doctor. “Though why its in your leg…”

“Perhaps they thought it would be closer to my brain,” she pouted.

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Wednesday

Upon hearing voices, Madam Pomfrey flew round the corner. “What has happened here?” Madam Pomfrey excitedly asked, evidently quite surprised to see the unlikely pair. Her eyes widened as she considered them. Gwenevere loosened the hold she had around Severus’s neck to appear more formal. Snape’s hand moved further from Gwenevere’s hip and held her under her knees instead.

“Professor Collins has just broken her foot, Madam Pomfrey.” Snape said.

“Please set her down over here, Professor Snape.” Snape set Gwenevere down on the bed and was extra careful not to let their hands touch. Snape stepped back but remained close enough to be involved with Gwenevere’s examination.

“ Let’s have a look at it. Yes, definitely broken, but not to worry, I can fix it. Professor Snape, I can take care of things from here. You are free to leave now if you like.” She made whisking away motions with her hand and fully expected Snape to leave at once. Snape started to speak but stopped.

“Madam Pomfrey, is it alright if Professor Snape stays?” Gwenevere asked.

“Yes, I suppose so.” Madam Pomfrey said reluctantly and looked over her glasses at Professor Snape. She took into account the early hour and the tight muggle exercise clothes Professor Collins was wearing; her midriff was exposed and the clingy black material left nothing to the imagination at this close proximity. She spiciously wondered about the casual way Professor Snape’s white shirt was pulled out over his trousers and had never known him to allow anyone to observe his less than formal attire. She recalled the way Professor Collins held him tightly around the neck, and he was apparently in no hurry to set her down when they first came in. Madam Pomfrey raised a brow. She didn’t approve of shenanigans and Professor Snape was not her favorite Professor by any stretch of the imagination.

“It’s awfully early to be breaking your foot Professor Collins, it’s fortunate Professor Snape was available to help you, isn’t it?” The question was leading and she asked with authority, gazing over rims again.

“Yes, it is indeed madam Pomfrey.” Gwenevere said quietly, the throbbing pain causing her to shut her eyes and wince slightly. Snape lurched forward.

“Look. Can we please get on with it? She is in considerable pain,” Snape hissed.

Madam Pomfrey eyed him warily and commenced a full examination of Gwenevere's foot, causing her to again wince. Severus took another aggressive step forward, toward Madam Pomfrey. She held him at bay with the palm of her hand.

“Are you hurt anywhere else dear?” she asked quietly.

“Just my hip I think.” Gwenevere replied.

“I see. Professor Snape, I must insist you to leave this area so that I may examine the patient further.” She said sternly. Snape looked at Gwenevere and she nodded him leave: that he should step behind the curtain. When he was safely out of sight, madam Pomfrey carefully exposed the abrasion, examined it and treated it topically.

“Excuse me, I’ll be back directly.” She said, stepping out from the curtain and eyeing Snape surreptitiously.

Snape moved in close to Gwenevere and asked her about the pain level. He looked up when he heard madam Pomfrey clear her throat loudly upon her return. Severus watched like a hawk as she wrapped the foot in white gauze, which had been dipped in a thick magical poultice making a cast around the foot and ankle, which was designed to set and repair the bones.

“The cast will harden in a few hours time and must stay on the foot for twenty four hours. The cast must stay dry so you’ll most likely need help in and out of the bath.” She eyed Snape disapprovingly yet again, but her scowling didn’t put him off in the least.
“Stay off of it today, and come back tomorrow… after breakfast…and I will remove the cast.

“What about the pain madam Pomfrey?” Severus asked.

“I have something right here for that.” She gave Gwenevere a small white pill to take.

“Thank you madam Pomfrey. Gwenevere said sincerely.

“You are quite welcome dear, see you tomorrow then.”

Then the revolving door swung around and a tall, statuesque, not-quite-blond-but-pretty-darn-close beauty sauntered into the lobby. Her black suede trousers were tucked into soft suede boots, a worn black leather jacket incompletely covered her blowsy pirate's shirt and she balanced a motorcycle helmut on one hip as she pulled her mirrored sunglasses off. She smiled at George's ferocious look, swept up to him and wrapped one arm around his neck as she pulled him down for a kiss.

That lasted for an hour, two hours, a day, a week....

Finally she let go. George swayed on his feet, his eyes ever so slightly crossed. The woman smiled, took him by the front of his shirt and walked towards the restaurant, towing him behind her like a captured ship. "Reservation for Joya Clifford," she informed the maitre'd, and they passed into the room, across the carpet and over to the farthest, most private table in the room. A waiter rushed over with champagne and glasses, then bowed himself away.

George shook his head slightly, as if to clear the fog. "Well, what was so urgent?"

"I wanted to see you," she pouted. "I've got some news you're going to like."

"What kind of news?" George asked suspiciously, eying the champagne with distrust.

"You know how you hate me riding around on my motorcycle?" She asked, dropping one hand onto his thigh. "Well, I'm giving it up. It's going into storage this weekend."

George stared. "Why?"

"One word." Joya smiled, blushing prettily. "Babies."

I don't think he's a vampire in this story - though as he's never been outside so far, he could still be ;))

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Tuesday

Severus was in his den organizing the day’s lab review work when he became abruptly aware of an uneasy feeling regarding Gwenevere. He consulted his watch and strode to the entranceway. Upon opening the door, he saw Gwenevere’s cat alone in the corridor. He then went across to her quarters, let himself in and looked out of her office window to survey the Quidditch pitch. He could see the track, but he couldn’t see Gwenevere running on it. He fled her quarters, descended stairs quickly and was out of doors and approaching the track in seconds.

“Gwenevere” he said as he slowed to a walk upon reaching her.

“Severus, I think my foot is broken, and maybe my ankle. I can’t get my shoe off. It really hurts.” She told him. Seeing him welled her emotions again.

“I’ll have a look.” He flicked his wand and the shoe and the sock vanished. He could see that her foot was definitely broken, just by looking at it. “You will need to go and see Madam Pomfrey in hospital wing for this Gwenevere.”

He used a lightening spell to cause Gwenevere to become feather-weight so he could carry her with ease the considerable distance to the hospital wing.

“Are you going to use the spell to carry me through the threshold on our wedding night Severus?” she asked, trying to lighten the mood and keep her mind off of the pain.

“Probably not, I think I can handle that one unassisted.” He said. He did not like the look of her foot at all.

I don’t know, I am fairly heavy and I certainly wouldn’t want you to throw your back out, especially on that night.” She said. Gwenevere was quite comfortable in her present state. The lack of gravity was a relief to her broken foot.

“What happened exactly, what caused your fall?” He asked, looking around the vicinity and trying not to sound as concerned as he actually was.

“It was very odd, I felt someone or something push me down, and it was no accident.” Tears welled at the thought but she managed to calm them. Snape narrowed his eyes in concentration.

“What do you think caused it?” she asked.

“I think it is curse related, unless you have made enemies.” He smiled. “The amulet probably fended it off before it could do more harm.” He said.

They were in the school now and traveling along abandoned, dimly lit corridors. Torches announced their progression. It was just after five am. He carried her into the deserted hospital wing as stood there for several moments, looking around and trying to decide what to do. There were rows of beds made up and ready for patients along the wall in the empty room.

Claudia and Ed

“So, who do you have to shag around here, to get a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit?” Asked Spike as they re-entered the console room. The others were calmly sitting on the sofa and armchair, empty cups on the table in front of them. One biscuit was left on the plate.

“You just need to put the kettle on,” said the Doctor. “The tea is cold, I’m afraid. No shagging required.”

Claudia suppressed laugh at hearing the Doctor say shagging came out as more of a snort and a grimace.

“What have you been doing?” asked Ed, despite himself. “You were supposed to be making tea.”

“We made tea, then we went and found some clothes. I couldn’t wander round the palace in what I was wearing.”

“I don’t think they’ll let you wander anywhere.” He got up from the sofa, arms crossed over his chest. Hugging or protecting himself. “We’re here, by the way, we’re back.”

Spike leant over and snatched the remaining biscuit. “Never mind the tea, this’ll do. Where do I go then?”

“You stay here,” said Claudia giving him a hard stare. “Don’t leave the Tardis. Got that?”

“That’s hardly fair, don’t I get to meet the Queen, princesses, and ladies-in-waiting?”

“Empress”, Claudia corrected. “And no, you most certainly do not.” Sit and Stay, she thought.

The Doctor had moved from his chair, round to her side, and she hadn’t noticed. She jumped as his hand touched her elbow.

“Have you forgotten, you wanted me to remove something. We should do that now, before you get called to the Courtroom. Are you ready?” He looked perfectly serious. He was going to do it, and it didn’t look like he was looking forward to it. She nodded. His eyes scanned the room. “You gentlemen please wait here. This could be dangerous, and if there is an explosion…”

“Wait a minute!” Spike lurched forward, and Ed grabbed his arm, and held him fast.

“She got herself in this mess, she has to sort it out without hurting anyone else.”

“Explosion!”

“She’ll be alright. She always is. Aren’t you?”

“Thank you both for your concern,” she said voice trembling. “You can’t help me on this one.” She left the room with the Doctor, as they stared after her in silence.

“I must leave.” Ed and Spike jumped, having almost forgotten that Anton was in the room. Anton got up out of his seat. “I have much to do. It was an interesting experience.”

Ed took Anton’s hand and shook it, then moved quickly to the console and pulled the door release lever. “We will follow soon, Herr Gruber. Please let them know.” Anton Gruber gave a curt straight backed bow, and left the Tardis.

“Frigid, mate. They should rename you Frostbite, with that attitude.”

Had Anton known that Ed was only controlling himself, because he had been in the room, maybe he would have stayed. Now they were left alone, Ed’s barely checked anger boiled to the surface, and he bellowed as he crossed the room to Spike, grabbed him by his coat collar, and pushed him against the wall. “Don’t you dare tell me how to deal with her, and don’t you dare presume to know what’s going on between us, right? I told you before to stay away from her, and I mean it. She doesn’t need a further complication. She’s got enough to deal with without the distraction.”

“Alright, alright!” Spike waved his hands in the air in surrender. “Leave off mate. She’s made it clear how she feels - just friends, just friends with everyone. I’m not going to hurt her.”

“You’re right about that, you’re not going to get close enough to even breathe the same air.”

Spike’s comic façade slowly dissolved. His self-protective act slipped away, and he straightened visibly. Pulling himself up to almost, but not quite Ed’s height. His arms came down, around and up through the middle of Ed’s, and pushed outwards to break Ed’s grip on his collar.

“Listen, mate. I was an ear, when she needed one, OK? Nothing else. If she were mine, I’d be spending my energy making sure she was OK, rather than acting the jealous boyfriend and picking on some stranger. It’s all fun and games until someone loses a leg. Which she might. What are you going to do then? Keep her locked away, and look after her? Or keep running in the opposite direction like you are now? I’m going to make sure she’s OK. Because she deserves that. You can stay here and wallow in your self-pity by yourself.”

“Its because I care I have to let her deal with this by herself.”

Spike pushed himself away, and walked towards to corridor. “We’re different, you and me. Sometimes a hug is in order. And its better coming from a stranger, because there’s no hang ups, no history.” He started to jog. “If I were you mate, I’d stay out of my way, and I’ll try and keep out of yours.”

Claudia and Spike

After much prancing and cavorting, trying on silly outfits, they each chose something sensible. Claudia felt guilty for wasting time playing around, when Ed and the Doctor were probably struggling with the controls and trying hard to get them back to the palace, to arrive moments after they had left.

Spike wore some steel-toed DMs, drain-pipe black faded jeans, a black t-shirt and long black leather coat. Claudia chose her trademark red - a three-quarter length leather jacket, which tied at the waste in a belt. After much arguing, she had chosen a plain black skirt to go with it (no jeans!) and knee-high black leather boots. The both posed in front of the full-length mirror. Practisingtheir pouts and sour-looks.

“Real model material, with those cheekbones.”

“Ha. But not with those hips, luv.”

She slapped him and pulled a face. “Not used to this. Usually thigh-high boots and jeans. I only wear skirts for parties.”

“In to fishing then?”

“What?”

“Only use for thigh-high boots - waders for the river.”

“Thanks, you’ve just ruined my trademark look. I’ll never be able to wear thigh-highs again, without thinking of that image.”

“Sorry, luv, but thigh-highs sound tragic.”

“Well, I think time to be serious. The tea will have gone cold, but I’m still going to be in hot water.”

“Don’t let it bother you. You’ve better things to worry about.”

“Yes. Like being a witness at someone’s trial. And hope it doesn’t turn into my trial. I wonder if sleeping with someone is the same as being married? Then I wouldn’t be able to testify.”

“If sleeping with someone is the same as being married then I’m one hell of a bigamist. Don’t think its even worth mentioning.”

“Yes, perhaps not. Claudia slept with the Interrogator, she must be innocent.”

“So, nice bloke this Interrogator? Must be something special to get to you?”

She shuddered. “Complete opposite, actually, and I’d rather not talk about HIM any more.”

“Typical. They all like bad boys.”

“No, not really. We all lust after bad boys, but we stay with the good ones.”

“Lust is good. We should work on that.”

“No thanks, I’m going on a lust-free diet. I’m going back to my original plan of ‘let’s just be good friends’ with everyone… including Ed. Especially including you.”

“You already made that clear, luv. Come on then. Back into the fiery pit of hell.”

We are interchangeable after all Cindie!

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Monday

He was rudely awakened by an obnoxious shaft
of sunlight penetrating his eyelids and turning everything neon pink inside his pounding skull. Knotted bedclothes were anacondas anchoring him to the mattress by a strangle hold around his middle. A semi overturned bottle of gin vied for space with a lamp and several pictures of a beautiful woman. Hardened puddles of beeswax overflowed the candle dish and the tabletop forming wax icicles on the edge of the littered, dusty nightstand.

His hand uncoordinatedly stabbed in the direction of the compact table clock, knocking the leaning gin bottle to the floor with a loud clatter. The glunking sound of air as it replaced liquid through the bottleneck resulted in the destruction of the timepiece as it hurled through the atmosphere toward the offensive sunshine and smashed against the window on the far wall of the bedroom. A pane of glass shattered and fell to the street below.

The pungent smell of that which was responsible for his severely dehydrated state assaulted his nostrils and clashed with his spinning head and empty stomach. He got out of bed and staggered to the bathroom to be sick. He drew a glass of water and gulped it down as he looked through dingy mirrored glass at blonde streaked hair and hollow sleep-deprived eyes.

It had been since Friday when he had made it quite plain to her, he thought, that he had special feelings for her. Why has she rejected him? Why did she not respond in the way he wanted her to? He ran a hand through his hair and twisted away from the two dimensional antipodal liar to turn on taps in the shower. He had clearly made the decision. He would see her today, somehow.

**************************************

Gwenevere left much later than usual and headed to the Quidditch pitch to run despite Severus’s tempting suggestion that she lay with him still longer. She felt unusually groggy this morning as she walked the track to warm up. Something wasn’t right today, but what? 'Maybe it was all that sugar in the dessert last night, I’m not used to it' she thought.

She scanned the immediate area and noticed that no one was practicing Quidditch this morning. All was quiet in an eerie sort of way. Steam vapor rose from the blacktop and evaporated into the sunlight. Puddles from last nights rain reflected painted light and blue sky as the breeze blew over them causing delicate ripples. A white owl flapped its gossamer wings and danced on the slick bronze globe of a nearby statue in an effort to secure footing.

She started running slowly and gradually increased to speed. Soggy footfalls found their rhythm and mechanically echoed advancement. Gwenevere thought of nothing in particular when suddenly she felt someone’s hand come from nowhere and shove her forcefully to the ground. She fell hard and landed her full weight on her twisted foot. She heard the bone snap and rolled onto her hip causing severe pain and a nasty bruise no doubt.

She looked around for someone to help, but no one was there. She grimaced through tears at the sight of her painful foot, which seemed to be skewed in the wrong direction now. She shook mud from her hand and decided to try and remove her shoe while she waited for Severus to miss her. Her ankle and foot swelled quickly, preventing her from releasing the shoe.

Boots joined her on the track and she asked him to go and get Severus, but she wasn’t sure he understood.

MA, aww. After the JE quote at the beginning of the month, another "impossible love affair" novel. I'll seond the "... THUD!"

King Richard arrived with Count Godfrey and Baron Abelard of Anjou just in time for the midday meal, as threatened. Their horses clattered over the drawbridge accompanied by the cheers of the king's loyal subjects, most of whom preferred to stand in the courtyard shouting like fools to doing an honest day's work. I watched the entire sickening sight from the parapets before I descended the stairs to greet the king in person.

He looked quite cheerful, which I thought was in rather bad taste, considering the circumstances of his visit. He clapped me on the back and roared at me to get up, that there was no need for ceremony between us on this wonderful occasion. I tried not to gag too obviously.

Even though there were two rulers in the company, the king's retinue was quite sparse. Only twenty men accompanied him, and from their liveries I could see that half of them were from Anjou. As the others dismounted and accepted cups of wine from the servants, the king confided to me that he'd deliberately left his usual assortment of guards behind in Derby. "No sense in you paying for all those extra mouths, George. I'm well aware that I'm taking enough away from you." He nodded solemnly and patted my shoulder. I refrained from stabbing him, just barely.

My official duty dispensed with, I turned to greet my other guests. Count Godfrey was a huge man, almost the size of Leofric but running more to fat than muscle. I had the impression of standing in the shade cast by a haystack. He looked older than the king, with gray streaks in his dark hair. I bowed and bid him welcome to Nottingham, and he took a few moments to respond, examining me carefully as if I was a retainer he was considering employing, then nodding his head once and turning away in gesture of dismissal. Which was fine with me; there's nothing worse than a gregarious houseguest.

The man I was most curious to see, of course, was Joya's first husband. I'd deliberately left him until last, not only for reasons of protocol but because I wasn't sure what my reaction to his physical presence was going to be. My uncertainty did not disappear upon meeting him. I knew that he was almost forty, but he didn't look anywhere close to it. Not quite as tall as I was, his features were pale, perhaps a residue of his life-altering fever some months before, and his eyes were large and blue, not a deep blue like Joya's but rather a watery, silvery blue. He stared at me as I went through the motions of greeting him, nodding carefully at intervals. His clothes hung loosely on him and he didn't seem to know what to do with his horse's reins, appearing almost pathetically grateful when one of my grooms took them to lead the animal away. Freed of the burden of his mount, he gazed around the high walls of the courtyard, apparently forgetting that I was standing right beside him.

By this time the Robin of Locksley had arrived and was going through his own introductions to the visitors. I didn't notice that they gave him any more attention than they'd given me. Naturally he wasn't as interested in Abelard as I was, so I was able to keep my supposed rival close by me as we walked into the great hall to join Joya and Marion.

The king's good mood increased at the sight of the ladies, both of them his relatives after all, and he hugged them both and kissed them enthusiastically. Count Godfrey didn't alter his manner at all when he greeted them, but it seemed to me that he spent some time eyeing both Marion and Joya in a rather speculative manner that I found puzzling. It wasn't the attitude of a man confronted by two beautiful women. I was something else that I couldn't name. I wasn't sure that I liked it.

Baron Abelard had hung back behind the others and it would have been easy to mistake him for another servant. He didn't seem at all eager to meet his past and future wife, which was something else I found puzzling. Not until Godfrey dragged him forward by the arm was he properly introduced, blushing fiery red and bobbing his head repeatedly until he finally didn't bother raising it again but remained staring at the ground. Joya smiled gently and bid him welcome in the soft voice I had sometimes heard her use with Richard. Abelard shuffled his feet and didn't respond.

Protocol having been observed to everyone's satisfaction, the guests were swept upstairs to their chambers to wash off the dust of the road and prepare for the meal. I watched the hall empty, wondering what revelations would emerge when we dined. It promised to be a tense lunch, and I supposed that a good host would have hoped we could get it through it without blood actually being shed.

But actually I was hoping that only the right person's blood would be shed.

Claudia and Spike

“Tada!” Spike walked out of the doors of the wardrobe, arms spread wide to display himself in all his skinny but muscled glory. Claudia had a sudden shocking flash back to Pricilla, Queen of the Desert.

She laughed - a true laugh that lit up her entire face, and made her feel lighter inside. It was something she hadn’t done in a very long time. “Are you sure you like girls?”

His hands went to his hips, mocking her. “I don’t know what you mean!”

He was wearing glittery platform boots and pink satin hipster flairs, with purple poker dots. His chest was still bare, but he had flung a pink feather boa theatrically around his neck, and he wore Dame-Edna glasses. Why on earth the Doctor would have such clothes in his collection, she dare not imagine.

She giggled and came up to him, adjusting his feathers. “Ed will be so happy if you start walking around dressed like that, but if I were you, I’d get something a little more practical.”

“Oh, and how about you in that princess dress? Let’s hope it’s not winter, wherever we’re going, or you’ll get a nasty chill.”

“I wasn’t planning on…”

“Come on.” He took both her hands in his. “Its fun. It’ll do you good.”

He lent in towards her, and tipped his head forward. They touched foreheads - his feathers tickled her neck. She leant into the touch and sighed.

“OK, then. Enough time to be serious when we get to the palace.”

“Palace? Well, perhaps the princess look will suit, after all?”

“No,” she repeated softly into the front of his shirt. She was having a hard time understanding how this could impact him now. “They can’t hold you responsible for something that happened when you were, what, eight?”

“But I knew, you see. After she got sick she started telling me things. I think she wanted me to understand.” His voice drifted a bit but he continued to hold her. Whether it was comfort for himself or for her was anybody’s guess. “She poisoned him.”

Cindie didn’t pull back. “And nobody suspected anything?”

Mistral did separate himself from her now. “I don’t think so. I don’t know.” He shook his head, the bewildered little boy peeking through again. “I remember the funeral… nothing seemed amiss, then.” He shrugged off the issue. It was enough of that for now.

Cindie stood straight, brushed down her sweater as if composing herself, and summoned a smile. “Well, we’d better get to work.”

“Oh, I’ll do the dishes, my dear. Today should be quiet. All the arrangements are made and everybody came by yesterday while I was out.” He indicated to the array of food in the kitchen.

Despite her feeling sheepish about what she’d done, her grin broadened into genuine proportions. “I don’t mean the dishes. We’ve got to get the house ready.”

“No, everything will be at the church. Nobody will come here now.”

“I think we’d really best be prepared. Just in case.”

Mistral finally shook off the vestiges of the fuzz that was clinging to the corners of his brain. What had she said? I’ve told them. He himself had informed the Director and requested that the information be kept confidential. The funeral was to be very small, simply the local population that knew her from the old days. It wasn’t that he didn’t want his friends and co-workers to know; he simply didn’t wish to burden them with his grief. He would tell them later, quietly. So he had thought. His eyes narrowed and he asked her, “What have you done?”

“Nothing.” Cindie knew she couldn’t manage the innocent look, but she gave it her best shot.

“Whom did you tell?”

“Just Dev.” There. That didn’t sound so bad. She’d only actually told one teeny weeny person. So to speak.

“And Dev then told who else?”

“I don’t know. I’m in Wales.”

“You certainly are. The question is, who else is going to be in Wales?”

“Like I said, my dear,” her smile was beatific , “We’d better get the house ready.”

Therese fumbled around in the kitchen—-not the most familiar territory, though she was certainly capable of throwing together the occasional meal—-when she was startled by the sound of a knock at the front door.

With an abrupt, baying woof, Tory beat Therese to the door by several steps, looking up at the wooden frame expectantly. “It’s not always someone delivering food, you miserable mongrel,” she scowled to her pet.

Opening the door, Therese was startled to see The Director at the entryway. “Sir,” she exclaimed, “what are you doing here?”

“Good to see you, too, Therese,” he replied dryly. “Oh, hullo, Tory,” he added, unobtrusively slipping the Alsation a treat from his inner coat pocket. “Might I come in?”

“Oh, of course, I’m sorry please do,” she quickly backed up, inviting him in and taking his jacket to hang on the brass coat rack beside the door. “I’m just throwing together a shepherd’s pie for dinner, are you hungry?”

“Well, actually I was trying to find Dev,” The Director began, as he followed Therese back to the kitchen where she continued layering the ingredients for the meal. “But it seems that not only has his phone been disconnected, but when I dropped by what I believed to be his accommodations, his landlord, a quite unsavory bloke, informed me that he’d been evicted. Seems he had a rather large dog staying with him. Not, I’m sure, that you’d know anything about that. . .”

“Tea!?” Therese inquired brightly. “Or would you care for a bitter? I’m sure that I’ve something in there that would appeal to you if you’d have a look,” she said, indicating the large silver refrigerator in the corner of the room. Wiping her hands off, she took the glass dish with the now constructed shepherd’s pie and moved to place it in the oven.

“Therese,” The Director crossed to the stove and opened the door for her, then took an oven mitt and slid the partially baked soda bread to one side. “I know he’s living here now.”

Therese dropped the pan onto the oven rack with a clank. “You do?” she asked, grimacing slightly. “You do?” she asked again, her voice cracking.

“I do,” he confirmed.

Therese digested this bit for some time, her lips working reflexively, thinking of the no fraternization rule that had been so instilled within the entire crew. It didn’t really matter that they’d all erm, fraternized all over the place, but having The Director confront her with this himself was another matter entirely.

He stooped over her just a bit. “This gaping fish look doesn’t do you justice, Therese.”

“But,” she tried, then paused. “How?” She didn’t get any further that time either. The Director looked down at her, crossing his arms over his chest, with an I’m not blind look upon his features.

Therese knew when to beat a hasty retreat. “I’ll get him for you, he’s calling the list of crew that Linda provided,” she said, and shot from the room.

They returned a few moments later, The Director straightening quickly as to not actually be observed being overly sentimental with Tory. The two men clasped hands in a warm handshake. “Dev, thanks so much for the help, I just wanted to go over a few things with you if you’ve a moment?”

“Of course,” Dev replied, “we’ll be eating soon, can you stay for dinner? Therese was going to take Tory for a quick run, we can get any arrangements squared away, and then she can give you a lift back to your place on the way to take the dog and that wretched cat to the kennel.

Paul McCatney looked up from the floor where he was entwining himself around The Director’s feet, and gave a disparaging ‘meow’ at the mention of what passed for his name where Dev was concerned. The Director glared down at him, shifted his leg slightly and muttered, “Sod off.” (slightly edited homage. . .)

“Right,” Therese said, realizing that the two men were better left to themselves, she moved to the counter, and handed the corkscrew and bottle of Beaujolais she’d planned to serve with the dinner to Eamon. “Here, why don’t you two take this into the office, I’ll just have a quick run around the park and by time I get back, we can eat.” She paused, and looked to Dev, “Whatever you do, don’t forget to take the soda bread out when the timer rings.”

The Director looked at his two co-stars fondly, and quirked a brow. “How domestic,” he drawled.

Therese looked toward him. Dough-mess-TIC. No one had the gift of imbuing more in a single word than The Director. “That, sir, will be enough out of you,” she informed him, and then spoiled the effect entirely by beating a hasty retreat. She was halfway out the door when she threw back over her shoulder, “And try not to molest the cat, won’t you?” before closing the door firmly.

The Director took the bottle of wine from Dev’s hand, and reaching for the corkscrew began to open it. “Cheeky little thing, your Therese, isn’t she?”

Dev just smiled. “That she is, I must say, that she is.”

Cindie sat there struck dumb. How many syllables did that word have? Each and every one seemed to resonate in her brain as she tried to grasp what Mistral had just said. Murderer. She blinked a few times while Mistral seemed to be simply waiting. When she finally reacted with speech it was in a tone simultaneously disbelieving and patronizing. “No you’re not.” She regarded him closely as if waiting to see if he would shift before her eyes and become the murderer he had declared himself to be. Satisfied that he hadn’t and wasn’t, she repeated it firmly. “No, you’re not.”

He leant back in his chair and crossed his arms, his sardonic aplomb carrying him through even in this. “You know better, do you?”

“Yes, I do. I know you and I know better than to believe that even from your own lips.” That she was defending him against himself didn’t seem to bother her in the least.

“As it happens the law would differ in its opinion.”

“Well then, the law would be stupid.” She glared at him now, anxious to have this absurd self accusation laid to rest, “Why don’t you stop being so damned cryptic and tell me what you’re talking about.”

“I am attempting to do so.”

“Well, do so.” Now she crossed her arms, waiting for an explanation. It clearly had better be a good one.

“It’s to do with my father.”

“Your father.”

“My father.” A pause. “He was not a kind man.”

“He didn’t beat you did he? Or your mum?”

“No. Are you going to let me tell this?”

“Yes, yes. Did someone kill your father? A business rival?”

Mistral gave her a long pointed look and Cindie resolutely sat back and pressed her lips together in the ‘I’m not saying another word’ position.

Mistral marshaled his forces and began again. “My father was not a kind man.” For a moment he looked somewhere into a middle distance that only he could see. Then he refocused on her and continued. “He was never one to show any affection either to me or to my mother. I don’t think he meant to be cruel; I think he simply had nothing to offer. But of course, I was young when he died and my recollections are from the perspective of a child.” He paused again and took a sip of juice. Cindie valiantly kept her mouth shut. “Later, though, he began to -- I don’t know quite how to phrase this -- to bait me, for lack of a better term. I had always wanted to get his attention, tried all the typical ways, feats of daring, academic achievement…” He saw Cindie’s eyebrows quirk and said defensively, “Eight year olds can achieve.” She tried to imagine him as an earnest eight year old vying for attention from an indifferent father and wanted to hug him to pieces.

Mistral went on. “He would occasionally acknowledge my existence but little more. Then he began to say things, little things.” Cindie gave an involuntary shiver as his expression took on a hard edge she’d seen before when he was at work. “Even now it’s hard to remember what they were or why they hurt so much at the time. He began to go out of his way to make comments that would undermine whatever I had done or was trying to do.” He shook his head. “I know this sounds foolish, but he seemed to take delight in skewering me whenever he could. I’ve no idea why.” Now his look was utterly baffled, the hurt child trying in vain to figure out what he’d done wrong. “At first it made me try harder but that only served to give him more ammunition. I’m not certain but later, years after he died I mean, I recalled that he had done much the same to mother. It was like when I reached a certain age I was eligible for this treatment, too. Until then I was of no interest to him.”

Cindie couldn’t keep silent at this. “Patrick, that’s awful. I would like to have him here so I could give him what for.”

“That’s just it. My mother did. The ultimate what for.” He enunciated the last two words carefully.

Cindie gaped. “No, how could she? Everybody would have known. She’d have been in jail…”

“I told you, she was a chemist. Ran the local chemist shop.”

“Oh, I thought when you said that she was a chemist, you meant a chemist, a scientist I mean.”

“Well, she was, really. She knew everything about preparing drugs, what medication did what, she even would recommend herbals and things, she didn’t just count pills out and put them in bottles.”

Cindie was finally beginning to see where all this was going. “Are you saying your mother poisoned your father? Because he was a nasty bastard?”

“In a word. Yes.” Cindie began to rub her temples with her index and middle fingers. In a voice filled with guilt that he had made wholly his own he finished, “She did it for me.”

At that Cindie scraped back her chair and leapt to her feet. “Did it for you? How can you think that?” She shook her head and threw up her hands. “No, its too much! You can’t take the blame for that; you were a child!”

Mistral stood and placed his hands on her shoulders. He could feel her body trembling with rage, he thought, on his behalf. “I didn’t realize it then. She told me, later, when the disease began to get a hold of her brain.

Cindie recalled the cry Mistral’s mother had made when she was here last. Arthur, I did it for you.

His hands moved down to grip the sides of her arms. “Cindie, I’ve already gone to the authorities. The moment I knew what had happened and did nothing I became an accessory.” Cindie started to shake her head and protest. Mistral pulled her close. “Ssshhhh. They’ve already promised to take no action until after the funeral.”

“No.” Was all she could say.

It was a quiet ride home from the studio that evening, Eamon at the wheel, Therese silently beside him, and Tory sighing softly in the back seat. As most dogs, she was sensitive to the somber mood, or simply hadn’t resigned herself to being a back seat dog when heretofore she had habitually occupied the passenger side.

They let themselves into the flat, Dev immediately starting toward to the corner of the open living area which had been designated an office of sorts, and Therese heading for the kitchen. “I’ll whip up something for dinner, you’d best start calling, you’ve a lot of ground to cover.” Dev nodded distractedly, began to move toward the phone, then quickly turned back to Therese and pulled him to his chest, where he hugged her tightly. Holding her against him, he rested his chin atop her head, his eyes closing. “It’s hard, isn’t it?” she asked, burrowing into the hollow of his collarbone. The loss of a parent was something they’d both felt, the poignancy of Mistral’s loss had affected them both.

“It is indeed,” Eamon replied softly, stepping back slightly he pressed a kiss to Therese’s forehead and turned her back to face the kitchen. “Go and cook, then we should pack our things after. I’d like to leave early.”

“Yes, you always do. I’ll throw something into the oven, go for a quick run, and then take Tory and Paul to the kennel. When I’m back you should be finished and we can eat.”

Eamon nodded his acceptance of the plan, and soon Therese could be heard rummaging around in the kitchen. He continued over to the phone, and began thumbing methodically through the list of names that Linda from the front office had compiled for him. Alphabetically, he’d noticed, thinking not for the first time that without the amazing competence that Linda possessed, the entire studio would probably come to a grinding halt. With a heavy sigh, he began. “Hullo, Phil? It’s Dev. I thought you should know. . .”

He’d left a message for Dwight on his machine, spoken with Sinclair’s secretary, but was left with nothing other than a frequently repeated double ring when he attempted to reach Brandon. With a frown he skimmed down several letters with his forefinger, and pinned it upon Mary Anne’s. He’d almost given up when finally there was a breathy, “Hello?” from the other end.

“Mary Anne? It’s Dev—are you alright?”

There was a sudden throat clearing and the semblance of something occurring on the other end of the line, which prompted Dev to inquire, “Have I called at a bad time? I’m terribly sorry to interrupt, but it’s rather important.”

“Oh, no, “ Mary Anne replied, her voice gaining momentum rapidly. “What is it, is anything wrong?”

“I’m rather afraid there is,” Dev responded, going into the details that he’d already begun to loathe. It was so difficult being the bearer of bad news, and reliving each fresh reaction to the sorrow expressed by his friends. Finally when he’d relayed the important details, he mentioned his attempt to contact Brandon. “You haven’t seen him by chance, have you?”

Dev’s inquiry was followed by a slight pause. “Actually, Dev, he’s right here.”

“Indeed?”

Brandon, though he is not a fire-breathing dragon, is warm and ardent in his attentions until finally he releases Mary Anne from his arms—only to have her insinuate herself into them again and settle her head on his shoulder. For some time they remain silent, listening to the hiss of the fire, Parkening’s deft and gentle rendering of the Romance (by that most prolific of all composers, A. Nonymous), and the occasional pat of a beagle’s tail against the floor as they dream of running in their sleep.

“Christopher, that is a very distressed expression for a man who’s just been kissed halfway to oblivion.” Teasing. “Do I not please you, then?”

Brandon, caught in his abstracted frown, relaxes and smiles down at her. “Only too well.”

Worried by his constraint, Mary Anne glances over at the coffee table where Brandon has left his champagne glass, still half-full. She nods toward it, still keeping her voice light. “Being careful, are we?”

He does not hesitate. “Rather. Considering the last time, I thought I should.”

Now it is Mary Anne’s turn to frown. “I thought we had settled that already. Listen, you said one thing you came here for was for mercy, didn’t you? Trust me; you have it. Until such time as you ask for no mercy . . .” A throaty chuckle. “I can’t guarantee to live up to the Hans standard on that, but I shall do my best, I promise you. Now, stop tearing yourself to pieces. I love having you here and I want to enjoy it.”

Brandon inclines his head briefly, his eyes crinkling as he smiles. “As you command . . . Domina. And on that occasion, I would endeavour to . . . reciprocate.” However, he is not quite ready to be joked out of his mood, and as Mary Anne arranges herself more comfortably against his shoulder, Brandon’s distant look returns. “And so, my dearest, what now?”

“What now? Why . . .”

Brandon catches her involuntary glance toward the hallway that leads to her bedroom. “No, I was not suggesting anything of the sort. Besides . . .” With his free hand, Brandon fidgets with a cushion tassel, drawing the strands through his fingers. “We had already discussed that before, Mary Anne. You know my views well enough.”

“I should. They’re the same as mine.” Mary Anne pushes herself upright on the sofa to look him in the eye. “What, has someone been gossiping about us because we aren’t sleeping together?”

Brandon winces a little. “You can certainly be a forthright woman at times, Mary Anne.”

“Yes. Well, tact is a wonderful quality but there are times it’s better to get right to the point. There shouldn’t be any reason we can’t talk about this.”

“Quite right. And to answer your question, no, there is no gossip of which I am aware, but . . .” An uneasy gesture, one hand lifting and falling in the impossible attempt to explain an impression. Brandon is a perceptive man, and though no one has said anything in his hearing about the intimacy of his relations with Mary Anne—doubtless knowing they would be scorched by a look of outraged hauteur for their prying—he has seen the glances that are trained upon them when they are together, on set or away from it; walked in upon conversations were hastily terminated at his approach; observed the whole freemasonry of whispers behind hands and significant looks that accompany rumour and speculation.

Mary Anne is shaking her head. “Imagine that. Two ordinary decent people who love each other and don’t hop right in the sack. Must be something wrong with them. Well, Christopher, is that what you want?”

“What I want, Mary Anne . . .” Brandon glances around the room, then smiles disarmingly at her. “I’ve so seldom been here and do you know why? It was because I didn’t believe it was safe. People would talk if they knew I had been here—and there are always those tabloid rags, you know.”

“I know.” Her tone bodes ill for the rags in general, and one in particular.

Brandon presses on. “And I think I did not trust myself to be alone here with you very often. That is what has troubled me so much about that last time, you see; it was like—“ A stain of red on his cheekbones, but his gaze remains on hers. “—the beginning of something I had imagined, and . . . could only end one way if I remained.”

“You are here now.”

“Yes, I am here now. Let me tell you what I want, Mary Anne. I have no intention of compromising you in any fashion, or taking one step beyond whatever line you choose to draw for me, but . . . I do love you, and I think you know it. More than friendship, though I certainly value that. I . . .” A hesitant breath. “I wish there to be no doubt in the minds of all who see us that there is more than friendship here.”

Those blue eyes, briefly veiled by their thick, dark lashes, now open and look full into his. “Much more, Christopher.”

Another silence. Not awkward. Poignant with possibilities. Much remains to be settled, but for now . . .

Brandon reaches out and traces one finger lightly down her face. “Were I alone with thee . . .”

Mary Anne shivers with pleasure. “You are alone with me.”

“I would kiss thee until . . .”

The telephone rings.

TRUE LOVES CURSE: Friday

Sunday Morning.
Gwenevere became conscious of cloud like environs. In the predawn gray she was deeply encapsulated under fluffy eiderdown and overstuffed feather pillows. She was barely warm enough owing to her, once again, having drifted to far away in the spacious four-poster. She shifted her position and was dealt with severely by cold merciless linen.

She dislodged her head, turned towards her warm lover and entwined her limbs with his in an effort to absorb as much of his body heat as possible. Severus embraced her willingly and listened as she spoke her early morning murmurs into his neck. Her cool skin was a welcome relief for him and the curious predawn ritual had become his favorite. He silently vowed to leave Hogwarts, if it ever came to it, before ever again waking without her by his side. He planted a kiss on her forehead, Gwenevere had become very still again.

“You’ve not gone back to sleep then have you love?” He asked, smoothing her mussed hair with his fingertips.

“No, not completely.” She sighed into his neck. She breathed in his masculine scent, which was much more pronounced in the morning than any other time.

“I’ve got to get up and run, but you are making it quite difficult for me. You are so incredibly warm.” She squeezed him tighter round the waist and sighed. The only time Snape could remember ever having felt chilled was when he mirrored Gwenevere’s unconsciousness. His warm feet attracted her cool feet like a magnet.

“Might I suggest that you sleep in--with me this morning? I am becoming warmer by the second.” He said, kissing the top of her head. He idly kicked the comforter off to the side again.

“Yes, I can see that. However, I must go, especially after last night’s dinner.” She said, and kissed his neck.

“That reminds me, how is your wrist this morning? Does it still feel stiff?” she asked, yawning.

“No...It’s fine. Good as new, Doctor Collins. I must confess. I do not understand why you torture yourself that way.” He sighed.

“Because it gives me energy…and it improves my mental attitude. You wouldn’t wish to experience me if I have not worked out.” She said. His hand found hers and their fingers entwined. His thumb caressed her palm provocatively.

“I am willing to take my chances.” He purred, shifting his weight lower in order to kiss her on the mouth.

“Running helps keep me warm. Improves circulation. Stamina.” She said.

He gently lifted her face towards his and she kissed him just the way he likes. He buried his hand in her thick unruly hair.

“I am here to keep you warm…but I must admit, you do have amazing stamina…”

TRUE LOVE'S CURSE: Thursday

Snape shouted an angry expletive
and grabbed his right wrist as blood splattered Gwenevere and dripped profusely through his fingers, seeping into the white sheets. Gwenevere stared down in horror and realized that she was clutching the Juliet diamond with her right hand. It felt unusually warm on her finger.
“Severus! What has happened? You’re hurt-- let me see. Give me your hand!” she said, concern straining her voice to its limits.

She reached for his wrist and he yielded. Tiny streams of blood spurted rhythmically from two puncture wounds, which resembled a snakebite and straddled the larger main veins. She quickly replaced his left hand fingers over the holes to impede pulsating sanguineous fountains.
Just a second Severus. Hold that please.” She said calmly as she leapt from the bed and violently drew open his wardrobe. Her bloody fingers grabbed a clean white handkerchief from the stack.
“It’s all right I think.” He offered and lifted his fingers. Synchronized scarlet streams splattered the wall beside the bed resembling tattered arches that began to run downward.
“No it’s not, hold still will you!” she insisted as she transferred the cloth to the bite and applied even pressure to stop the surge and allow for coagulation to occur.

She looked him over to make sure he was not going to faint owing to lowered blood pressure.
“Are you all right? How do you feel?” she asked, checking his color.
“I’ve had worse.” He smirked and rolled his eyes.
“This could have been worse.” She reminded him, resting his hand on her knee while she continued applying even pressure.
“Yes, in future, do mind where you aim that ring will you?” he quipped.
“I was, yet I did not know this would happen.” She said.
“Neither did I. Obviously.” He said cynically.

Hold pressure on this please, whilst I go and fetch the medical kit. She instructed as she positioned his fingers on the white cloth soaked red with blood half way to the ‘S’ in the corner. She threw on his dressing gown so guard against the chill and to avoid dripping his blood on the Persian rug as she crossed the bedroom to the bathroom. As she padded across the room she twisted her hair in a knot atop her head.

It’s in the cupboard under the basins.” He called after her. She returned in a moment’s time with a black leather bag and unzipped it. She glanced at the cloth and noticed the bloodstain had reached the ‘S’ in the corner now.
“You must hold the pressure dearest!” she insisted as she adjusted his fingers. She then began rooting in the bottom of the bag for antiseptic. She found what she was looking for and set it aside. She reached in and retrieved sterile cotton, gauze, scissors, and a roll of white tape.

“How are we doing here? It looks much worse than it really is I think.” she said absently as she took his wrist and checked the progress of the coagulation. She determined that it was almost ready for the antiseptic cleansing.
“You should have been a medical doctor Gwenevere.” He purred, as he observed her gentle touch and calm manner. Gwenevere smiled at him and trusted that he was teasing.
“Now this may sting a little…” she said as she applied the bright magenta liquid with cotton to clean the wound.
“Ouch! Bloody hell! That’s worse than the (beep) wound itself.” Snape snapped and tried to jerk his wrist away from her.
“Hold still please, we need to kill the germs.” She held his wrist tightly to prevent his reopening the calmed punctures.
“What germs? He scoffed. She blew lightly on his wrist to ease the sting.
“The germs from whatever made this mark, I don’t know.” She said absently. She blew some more and then began digging in the medical bag with one hand while the other applied pressure to his injury. She paused and considered him.

“Severus Snape, what were you thinking? She said, shaking her head.
“I think it was rather apparent what I was thinking don’t you?” He mocked casually. “It’s the same thing you were thinking.” He added defensively. She resumed her intense on-handed search at the bottom of the bag.
“Thinking yes, always… but doing—no. She said quietly.
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing …you…well then why did you conveniently…” Snape did a double take and took a sharp breath to protest her claim of innocence but was interrupted.
“What’s this?” she asked as she pulled out a bottle which had a snakehead with fangs pictured on the label. she squinted at the small print.
“Snake bite topical anti-venom.” He replied.
“Should we use it?” she asked.
“Won’t hurt, I should think.” He shrugged. He knew that did not sting and was enjoying the T.L.C. he was receiving.

“I wonder if you should go and see Madam Pomfrey?” She said as she opened the bottle and dabbed bright purple liquid on the tiny magenta stained holes. It penetrated his skin and spread, making tiny purple and gold iridescent hatch marks around the edges of his wrist.
“No! Absolutely not. It’s not necessary and she will ask too many questions.” He protested. Gwenevere was happy with the job at hand and took up the roll of gauze.
“It has almost stopped bleeding, but I am going to bandage it in gauze for now, until it stops completely.” She said, winding it neatly around his wrist with the perfect amount of pressure.

“I suggest we forget the curse and get married. We can go anywhere we choose and do anything we wish. We are wasting valuable time for naught.” He said as he watched her work.
“No we are not just wasting time. The work you do is very important and I cannot think of a better life than what we have right here and now. Can you?” she asked, finding scissors and snipping gauze. She folded back the edge in a neatly tailored seem. “Besides, you owe the Headmaster more consideration than that and we are going to banish the curse. Trust me.” She said as a matter of fact. She clipped tape and neatly secured the gauze bandage and then put the last of the supplies in the bag before zipping it up to finish.

“Would you hand me my wand please?” Snape asked her. She reached behind her and lifted his wand from the nightstand.
How does your wrist feel now? She inquired as she looked about at the carnage around them.
“Stiff.” He replied, moving his hand back and forth. He took the wand in his left hand.
“ I didn’t know that you were ambidextrous with your wand.” she said. She had not considered it before.
“Yes, if I must.” He said, pointing at the medical bag that was sitting between them. “Restituo.” He stated. Gwenevere watched as the bag obediently returned to the cupboard in the bathroom without delay.

Claudia and Spike

Shhhhh - Sandy won't even notice if you keep quiet.

The tea being made, Claudia gave the tray to Anton, and asked him politely to take it through to the control room, if he didn’t mind. “I have to find a shirt for blondie, here,” she explained.

Anton, wholly glad to be on his way back to familiar ground, nodded curtly, and left with the tea things. It had been a strange journey, one he would not forget.

“Come on,” she grabbed Spike’s arm, and pulled him down the hallway. “We’re going to the wardrobe room.”

“Sounds interesting, do they have an armchair-room, and an occasional-table-room as well?”

“You’ll see.”

The Wardrobe room was small with white walls. There was a large full-length mirror and next to it appeared to be a big old-fashioned wooden wardrobe. Claudia ceremoniously opened the double doors wide, to reveal - not the inside of a wooden wardrobe - but a walk-in-wardrobe of epic proportions. The corridor between the hangers of clothes seemed to go on forever, turn a corner, and go on some more.

“The Doctor travels a lot,” she explained. “He has clothes for himself, and any companions, to fit in with whatever time and place the Tardis visits. Go on, see what you can find.”

“You too,” he looked her up and down, noting her bare feet, her rumpled goddess dress, and stopping briefly at her cleavage, before moving up to her mussed hair.

“You first,” she insisted. “I’m sure I have some jeans in my room onboard somewhere.”

“Shy are we? I won’t look, promise. Unless you want me to.”

“Just get on with it, I’m not here for your entertainment.”

“My, full of yourself, aren’t you? I bet you think every man that looks at you is out for your body. What if, perhaps, you ain’t every blokes ‘cup-of-tea’? What if the bloke happens to like short red-heads, for example? Huh? Its not all about you, luv.”

Taken aback for a moment, she stammered. “Um, sorry. Of course not… I…”

“Of course, in my case, you’d be right. But it’s nothing personal. I have to ask every woman I meet, gets the odds up in my favour, gets all the guessing out of the way.”

“I can’t tell when you’re playing with me. I’m going to have to get to know you better.” She ventured a sly smile. “Only, I think I’ll stick to getting to know your mind, if you don’t mind.”

“Suit yourself. Now we know where we stand, I’ll go find me something epic to wear.”

"Report," O'Malley said crisply to the woman who had just arrived inside the conference room.

"Would you mind if I sit down first?" the woman snapped in reply as she tore off the bow-tie that she had worn as part of her surveillance gear and threw it carelessly across the table. A loud feedback noise echoed in the room and everyone winced at the high-pitched sound. A nervous-looking bespectacled young man quickly picked up the bow-tie and turned off the tiny microphone that was inside the knot.

"My bloody feet are killing me! You act as a waitperson at a 250-guest wedding reception with three Irish Wolfhounds to dodge in the bargain and tell me how lively you'd be feeling!"

"By all means. Please sit down and relax for a moment, my dear," O'Malley replied icily, standing up and bowing in the woman's direction mockingly.

"Don't patronize me, you arse!" the woman sneered, her brown eyes narrowing contemptuously as she sat down after pouring herself a glass of ice-water from the nearby pitcher. She put the glass on the table and then raised her hands to her head. She tossed off the short and curly brown haired wig that she had been wearing and unpinned her own naturally straight auburn locks, shaking her head after the last pin had been removed to allow her hair to cascade around her shoulders.

The other three that were seated around the conference table stared at the woman with wide eyes, shocked at her complete and utter disrespect for their superior. They had heard the scuttlebutt surrounding Johnston's sudden 'reassignment' for questioning O'Malley's authority and they didn't wish to be next on the man's list for 'permanent reassignment'.

O'Malley returned to his seat and leaned back in the chair, staring at the woman calmly. He picked up a pen that had been sitting atop a pad of paper on the table and played with it idly in his fingers. A slow, toothless smile appeared on the man's thin lips. "Good to see that you've still got that fighting spirit in you," he remarked, placing the pen back onto the pad of paper.

"And good to see that you're still full of bullocks!" the woman leered at O'Malley. She then calmly leaned down to take off her shoes. After that, she leaned back in her chair and plopped her feet on the table, throwing her head back defiantly as she wiggled her toes and sighed blissfully. The others saw that her feet and ankles were swollen and they could see the beginnings of a rather large blood blister on her left big toe. The unfortunate soul that was unlucky enough to sit next to her visibly recoiled in horror once she got a whiff of the stench that emitted from said feet.

"Put those disgusting-smelling appendages of yours back on the floor!" O'Malley growled. "After you finish, go to the infirmary and have them looked at," he continued.

While the woman made a rude gesture but did as O'Malley said, the group heard a beeping noise as the retinal scanner outside the conference room activated. There was a slight pause and then the group turned around as the door to the conference room opened and Evans walked inside, hiding a yawn behind his hand. "The feed from the reception's outside surveillance is ready to be played back here," he reported, taking a seat next to the bespectacled young man. He turned his head to the woman who had been undercover at the wedding reception and raised his eyebrow. "You saw nothing out of the ordinary?"

The woman passed a hand over her bloodshot eyes. "No - and heard nothing either. I wouldn't expect to, quite frankly. It's a wedding reception. People are there to have a good time." She yawned loudly and reached for her glass of water. "I'm sure you'll hear the tapes in the morning," she finished.

"Mmmm," Evans said noncomittally as he began passing out a single sheet of paper to the group in the room. "This, people, is a copy of the girlfriend's notes - taken from her notebook."

"What did the cryptologists have to say? Was there anything that could be construed as..." O'Malley broke off whatever he was going to say next when he began reading Sandy's notes in her neat handwriting. "There should be," he murmured, his eyes beginning to burn with a strange light.

"Uh sir," the bespectacled young man spoke up nervously. "Have you *seen* Dane's Egyptian storyline?"

"No," was the curt response as O'Malley raised his head and gave the young man a look that could curdle cream. "I've more important things to do than watch a television show - such as keeping the world safe from undesired elements."

"Trust me, sir. What's written on here falls *right* into the current story line," the young man said with a gulp.

O'Malley's eyebrow rose. "Really? How very... unusual."

"It's a very unusual story, sir."

O'Malley sighed and pushed the paper aside. "Fine then." He turned to Evans. "The feed's ready for playback down here?"

"Yeah," Evans replied. "We've cut the irrelevant parts out."

O'Malley made a gesture and Evans reached over for a remote control and pointed it at a large plasma TV that was mounted to the wall. He pressed a button, and the TV came to life. Evans pressed another button and the feed started playing. The image of a very large and wet dog nose appeared on the screen briefly, accompanied by loud sniffing noises. "Well, most of the irrelevant parts," Evans admitted sheepishly, watching as the image changed to that of Alexander and Sandy standing against the stone wall.

"Turn up the sound," O'Malley said quietly, watching the couple's image onscreen intently. His eyebrow rose as Alexander took Sandy into his arms and spoke to her softly. She, in turn, laughed as she moved up against Alexander and slowly slid her hands up and down his crisp white shirt. The group watched in silence as the feed continued. "I see they both have remarkably healthy libidos," he noted in a brittle voice, watching as Alexander's hands slid down past Sandy's waist to gently cup her behind while the two kissed. "Remarkably healthy indeed."

"Good for them," Evans said with a loud yawn.

"Belay that, Evans. We don't need your commentary," O'Malley muttered, turning towards the man with a frown. "How much footage did you get - and was there anything of relevance said?"

Evan's lips parted in a cheeky grin as he pointed at the screen. "Does it look like there was much conversation involved?"

O'Malley's eyes followed the direction that Evans pointed in. "I see." There was a long pause. "Turn it off," he said finally, waving a hand in dismissal towards the screen.

"Just a little bitter that someone's getting more action than you?" the woman who had been assigned field surveillance observed with a contemptuous grin. The others looked at the woman as she painfully rose to her feet with shocked expressions on their faces while Evans pointed the remote control and calmly turned off the TV.

O'Malley stared impassively at the woman. "Leave. I'll hear your report in the morning," he said.

The woman nodded once, leaned down to pick up the ill-fitting shoes, and limped towards the door. She opened it and began walking down the hallway, the others with the exception of Evans and O'Malley staring