Alan Rickman Flights of Fancy

FOF set, as Suzanne’s party winds down:

Mary Anne lingers by the refreshment table in the immediate vicinity of the cake, and it is not long before Brandon joins her. "I know that look, Mary Anne," he teases, refilling her cup of punch. "What mischief are you up to now?"

She accepts the cup with a nonchalant air that does not deceive Brandon one iota. "Look," she says quietly, managing to gesture with nothing more than a raised eyebrow. Brandon follows the direction of her gaze to see The Director watching them-watching without seeming to watch.

"He’s had his eye on me all evening," murmurs Mary Anne, "looking out to make sure I only have one piece of cake."

Brandon is puzzled; the Mary Anne he knows would be far more irritated than amused by such a restriction. "Ah." And then, light dawns. "Oh, I remember. You were supposed to see the new therapist this afternoon, weren’t you?"

"I was, and I did."

"And have you told The Director how it went?"

"No." A soft laugh. "And I don’t think I will, either. Yet."

Brandon shakes his head, one corner of his mouth curving into that familiar half-smile. "Will you tell me, Mary Anne?"

Mary Anne sets down her cup. "You, I’ll tell. Walk with me, Christopher."

Mary Anne and Brandon makes their excuses to the other partygoers, and as they leave the dungeon set Mary Anne takes Brandon’s arm and pulls him close to whisper into his ear. "First, promise you won’t say a word to The Director." A tug on his arm, as Brandon hesitates. "Promise?"

"Well . . ." Brandon looks at the woman walking there beside him-that fainting episode in her cubicle had troubled him more than he cared to admit, though his concern had surely been no secret to her; his insistence that she follow The Director’s orders would have told her as much. However, gazing down into her smiling face and seeing the mischievous sparkle of her eyes, Brandon cannot imagine that it will be any trouble to keep to himself whatever she is about to reveal. "All right, then, but only if it will not do you any harm."

"Oh, it won’t." She is laughing softly. "It will do me a world of good."

And, strolling through the set corridors with Brandon, Mary Anne tells him of her appointment with the new doctor, Jutta . . .

MA--stayed tuned to this FOF guestbook for further flashbacks . . . *grin*
Cindie: enjoyment is what it's all about, no? Glad you're here. , - Wednesday, February 28, 2001 at 19:52:44 (PST)

Cindie arrived home and sat down in the living room. Picking up the remote she flipped on the television and proceeded to slip off her shoes.

I am your husband no more. Take your freedom. But do not ask me to forgive the world or join it. Not now… you ask too much… But I forgive you, if you will forgive me.”

Resisting the impulse to throw one of her shoes at the wretched box she simply muttered, “Stupid re-runs,” and turned it off. She realized she was hungry and went to the fridge to check out her available dinner choices. Apparently they were limited to corn flakes or scrambled eggs. She stood there, holding the door open and staring, a knock at her door bringing her out of her reverie.

She peeked through the fisheye and, recognizing her neighbor and her neighbor’s pet man, opened the door. A beautiful Alsatian walked in as if she were an honoured guest, which of course she was. “Hello Rafter. You’re in luck, not much people food but plenty of puppy biscuits.” After Rafter came a tall, vigorous looking man in his mid twenties who followed his emissary through the door. He greeted Cindie and gave her a kiss on the cheek. Cindie tried her best to smile and greeted him in return. She went to the cupboard and retrieved the promised treats. Despite the reference to puppy biscuits they were of a size that gave the large dog plenty to work on.

Taking up residence on her couch the young man asked, “And what is troubling you? For something surely is.” Despite his relative youth her neighbor gave the appearance of a man who didn’t miss much. Rafter took up her position on the floor by his feet and munched on the biscuit she’d been given.

“Chandos, do you have to be so perceptive? I’ve had an awful evening but I don’t really want to discuss it.” Cindie sat down on the couch as well and Rafter inched over to be within petting distance. Cindie scratched her behind the ears. “Do you have any food at your place?”

“Not to speak of, Bell is on his holiday and I’m afraid I’m not good at that marketing business. Shall we dine out tonight?”

“Yes. Let me put my shoes back on. Had you just come in or were you heading out?” She belatedly noticed he had his coat on.

“Heading out. Thought we’d stop and see if you cared to join us.”

“Chandos, you’re the best neighbor a girl ever had.”

They went to a small restaurant around the corner where they were both regulars and Rafter was permitted to sit under the table. Chandos, of course, managed to coax Cindie in to telling him what had happened. He was a good listener and respected a confidence. After hearing her tale, he sat back and steepled his fingers, “Let me get this straight, his real name is Arthur, but he apparently has two middle names, one of which begins with the letter P, and he asked you to call him something that you won’t divulge that begins with that letter.”

“It sounds so reasonable when you say it.” She looked miserable.

“And what is my name?”

She started to say something flip but answered, in a tone that was only mildly exasperated, “Chandos.”

“My Christian name.”

“William.”

“My first name.” His tone was mocking now, but not the least bit cruel. He nudged her foot, “Come on.”

“Oh…. be quiet. If you’re going to be logical just forget it. Besides, you don’t like being called Rich….,” she paused, “Oh.” She was beginning to think she’d acted stupidly. It was much easier simply being mad.

They finished their meal, Rafter receiving the benefit of their extras and those of some other patrons, and walked back to the building that housed both of their flats. His set of rooms was directly across from hers, although his were much more expansive. Cindie often wondered why he kept a flat in this building. He had an adventure a few years back which left him well off. But he insisted it was to his tastes, and she had no reason to quarrel with that. They entered the common front door after punching in the code, and up a flight of stairs. The elevator was too slow to bother with and Rafter enjoyed bounding up the steps. At the end of the carpeted hall were their respective front doors. The hall was well lit and it was immediately apparent that someone was standing in front of Cindie’s door. Rafter made a sound low in her throat. Chandos ordered her to heel and she remained at his side with obvious reluctance. As they approached it became clear that this was no intruder. “Chandos, its all right.” Cindie said softly.

They traversed the distance to their doors and the four of them stood in the hallway. Rafter had ceased her growling and sat at Chandos’ left side. “Good evening,” Mistral intoned, as though this were the most natural of social occasions.

“Hello, Mistral. Allow me to present my neighbor, Chandos. Chandos, Mistral.”

The two men greeted each other, both giving slight bows. “And who is this?” Mistral indicated to Rafter.

Chandos replied, “This is the best dog that ever there was. Her name is Rafter.” After a brief look at his neighbor, and her *friend*, he turned to Cindie, “I will say goodnight now. A pleasure Mr. Mistral.” They nodded to each other and Chandos withdrew into his apartment, Rafter close at his side.

Mistral and Cindie stood in the hallway. Cindie closed her eyes for a moment. She opened them. He stood there looking …patient. Patient and wounded. “Do you want to come in?”

“Yes.”

She took out her keys. He took them carefully out of her hand and selected the one for the door. She remembered how he’d done that with her car keys, after their first dinner together. He opened her front door, returning the keys to her hand. He held the door for her and they entered her apartment. She turned on the lights and he closed the door behind them. Turning to face him she was torn between the desire to rail against him for not telling her his complete name and telling him what a fool she felt for not simply asking him about what she had learned from Claudia. She opted for neither and instead walked over and put her arms around him and rested her head against his body. She felt his arms encircle her and tighten.

Cindie
Homage: The re-run was of course from one of Renie's posts and I wanted to take a minute to let all the FOF writers know how much I appreciate all that they've done over the years. The archives are a 'field of dreams' and I'm so grateful for them and this playground and home I've discovered here. And even more important the people I've been lucky enough to get to know here. (Can you tell I'm in a sappy mood?) , - Wednesday, February 28, 2001 at 17:23:54 (PST)

Correction made.
Not "now" or ever again, I suspect.
D.o.C.

Oops! D.o.C., please: " . . . you no longer consider yourself in HIS employ." Not "now." Thank you.

MA
Now is the winter of HIS discontent . . ., - Tuesday, February 27, 2001 at 05:07:32 (PST)

"You are the man they call Minion."

Hardly even a nod-merely a lowering of his head.

"For the record, what is your real name?"

"Minion will do." Softly. "I have no other name worth mentioning."

Hudson frowns; this will not do at all. "I suggest," she replies evenly, "that you not make things difficult for yourself by being recalcitrant from the start-" And then she breaks off, for the man is smiling at her-bitterly, without a trace of humour. "Make things difficult for myself . . . Commander? It is Commander, isn’t it?" A quick glance at her rank insignia. "Yes. Difficult? Consider my employer." Bleakly. "My . . . former employer."

"So, you no longer consider yourself in HIS employ?"

"It doesn’t matter what I think. You don’t leave HIM until HE has finished with you-"

"And has The Interrogator finished with you, do you think?"

"No." Almost a whisper. "HE isn’t finished with me. Yet."

Hudson exchanges glances with Scout Sifuentes-who, by coincidence, had been the officer on duty when the Ensign had gone to fetch Minion. Their eyes meet in perfect understanding: what, after all, will persuade a man to speak when that man has remained alive and in relatively good health through years of serving The Interrogator?

Minion’s a professional survivor if ever I saw one, thinks Hudson, mentally revising her estimate of how long it will take to accomplish her task. There is no hint of any exceptional physical strength in Minion’s appearance. Hardly any strength at all, come to think of it; the man’s a textbook "nerd," in fact. And he does indeed look as if he would fold under tough questioning; his thin frame, hunched shoulders, and huge light eyes peering through oversized spectacles all suggest a man of little resistance to intimidation. A ninety-eight pound weakling.

Hudson nods to Sifuentes, who takes a step closer and makes an effort to look menacing. The effort is quite successful, for Sifuentes easily dwarfs the man in the chair. "Let’s try again," he suggests, with an easy good humour that does not deceive anyone in the room. "Your name-for the record?"

Minion remains silent.

Scout shakes his head. "You know . . . if you won’t cooperate with us, I can go to Delaford and be back in less than an hour. With Mister de Valera."

That threat tells-Minion’s large, nearsighted eyes widen and he swallows perceptibly, but he remains silent, his gaze fixed and still.

Hudson makes an impatient gesture, but Sifuentes puts out a hand to stop her from rising from her seat. "Don’t, Commander. He may not be able to help it; I’ve heard things about HIS organization and the way they condition their people. This man may have a mental block, a real one, about revealing certain information."

"You mean he does not even know his own name, now?"

"He may know it-but he’s been trained not to reveal it, at least, not under any attempt at coercion. And if The Interrogator drilled him in these controls, we can assume it was a thorough job."

"All right." Backtrack, and flank. "Minion will do, then."

Is it only her imagination? No. That unfocused gaze sharpens a little, and the eyes fix themselves on her. He has returned to himself . . .

Let’s try the direct approach. "Minion, I have here-" Hudson taps the papers on her desk. "-an Imperial summons. Your presence is required at the Palace to give testimony against The Interrogator. The Empress will judge him on a charge of murder and you are a witness . . . perhaps even an accessory."

Pay dirt. That sudden stillness, the instinctive "freeze" of a wild animal.

Hudson continues. "But if you give your assistance, the charges against you as an accessory to murder will be dropped, and you will enjoy Imperial protection."

Those pale eyes are alert. "It’s that business with Schiller, isn’t it?"

"At Nakatomi. Yes."

"I thought as much." A long silence. "Yes, I could help you-but The Interrogator’s reach is very long-"

Minion shivers, as if the temperature has dropped below zero, and Hudson can hardly blame him.

Finally, he looks up. "Yes, Commander, I’ll do it. It’s my only chance, because as long as HE lives, I’m a walking dead man."

Scout has withdrawn to a less imposing distance and is leaning casually against the doorframe. "Why is that?"

Flash of light from the thick lenses, as Minion shifts in his seat. "You should know; you were there. That Therese woman-"

Sifuentes reflects that it’s just as well Dev is not present to hear that. "Go on. What about Therese?"

"HE placed that bomb on her. The minute I disobeyed HIM and defused it, well . . ." Minion shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant and failing miserably. "But if I hadn’t done it, then that Mister de Valera would have killed me. And in a choice of die now or die later, I’d rather take later." He huddles further down in his chair.

Hudson nods; there is no point in trying to soothe the man with lies. For Minion, the clock is ticking.

"So long as The Interrogator is alive." She leans forward. "But with your help, that may not be much longer."

"That’s my only hope," replies Minion-and Hudson glimpses, with sudden horror, that it is a hope with this man, born of who knows what hell of oppression and terror. Minion has served his employer loyally, yet would welcome HIS death and reaches out with both hands to seize the chance of it, the opportunity to bring it about. I can hardly blame him for that, though, she thinks, choking back the impulse of disgust. I wouldn’t be sorry to hear of HIS death . . .

Minion is speaking again. "But with what I can tell, it would simply be my word against . . . HIS. What good is that?"

Hudson taps the stack of papers. "Don’t worry. You will have corroborating testimony."

"And this testimony will support me-what is it they say?--beyond reasonable doubt?"

Hudson nods, grimacing a little at the tasks that are still before her. "Yes. Beyond the shadow of a doubt."

MA--Kate, dearie!! Big ol' squeeeeeezy hug for you!!
"For Minion, the clock is ticking." R--remembering the long discussion over dinner at the Peabody. 8-), - Monday, February 26, 2001 at 21:03:23 (PST)

Sinclair,

I'm so relieved!!!
Kate <rickmaniac@hotmail.com>
- Monday, February 26, 2001 at 09:54:15 (PST)

Kate, I'm glad you're back.
Sinclair
And not just for the cucumber sandwiches, - Monday, February 26, 2001 at 09:51:56 (PST)

Sinclair, Are you glad I'm back? Kate Hoping beyond hope that he is!!!
Kate <rickmaniac@ilovethemovies.com>
- Monday, February 26, 2001 at 08:44:55 (PST)

Kate pops her head in: "Does anybody remember me? I'm asking before hurling a scone this time, although I *do* have a nice plate of cucumber sandwiches to go with a proper pot of tea... I sure have missed all of you."
Kate <rickmaniac@ilovethemovies.com>
- Monday, February 26, 2001 at 07:46:46 (PST)

In the file room:

On reflex she stood up. Staring at him, she felt like she was looking at the face of a stranger. (Homage)

The look on his face changed for a flicker of an instant. It became …vulnerable. There and gone.

“You left. I came to find you.” He took a step forward and ran his index finger along the back of the wooden chair which she’d pushed back when she stood up.

She closed the file. He’d already seen what it was. She put it back, none too gently and slammed the cabinet drawer closed. “Well, here I am.” She turned back to face him.

“Whatever you wanted to know,” he inclined his head towards the cabinet, “you could have just asked me.”

“Your answers don’t seem to be very, complete.” She bit off the last word.

“What….” He began to ask but she didn’t wait to hear the rest, didn’t want to hear the rest. She began to stride out past him. As she went by he reached out and grabbed her wrist. “Wait, can’t….” Again, she did not permit him to continue.

Wrenching her arm free, she spat “Let go of me!” She looked as if she might say more and then turned on her heels and continued out. Not stopping until she was at her office, Cindie reached for her coat and came up with a black wool men’s overcoat with a cream colored scarf.

Resisting the temptation to throw it on the floor and stomp on it, she took her coat off the peg and replaced his. She went home.

Mistral removed the keys from the cabinet drawer. She’d left them in her haste to depart from his presence. He selected another cabinet drawer, unlocked and opened it, and with the fingers of one hand spread the pages of a file open to check something. He closed the drawer and removed the keys. He took them to the Directors office, replaced them where they belonged and closed the door behind him. He retrieved his coat, made a phone call and left the building.

Cindie
- Sunday, February 25, 2001 at 10:40:21 (PST)

Give me a shopping list and I will remedy my deficiency-I have five teapots-{although four of them are ornamental}.Even in England I was given a teabag, although I longed for the sort of tea that you are talking about! I never saw one tea cozy either, dash it all.
a Rickman admirer
my husband would be upset if he didn't see me on his birthday-methinks they have an unusual relationship!, - Saturday, February 24, 2001 at 01:50:18 (PST)

A tea party. How lovely! Since I have a cold may I have mine with lemon and honey?
Cindie
I'll bring the crumpets., - Friday, February 23, 2001 at 18:03:02 (PST)

NEVER made a proper pot of tea?!! *throat-clearing noises* (Okay, MA, calm down, this is not the end of civilization as you know it . . .)

*ahem* Allow me to suggest that you avail yourself of this treat ASAP. You've been missing something lovely. 8-)

MA
Shall I pour? One lump or two?, - Friday, February 23, 2001 at 17:01:30 (PST)

I don't know about tea "getting you going" as I have never made a proper pot of tea {lipton teabags more like} but it does seem like hugs get you all going--so here's some more
a Rickman admirer
hug hug hug, - Friday, February 23, 2001 at 12:35:32 (PST)

In the Tardis:

Ed felt an overwhelming desire to relax with a nice bottle of red wine. But considering what happened last time, he thought it better to try the Doctor’s favourite cure-all. That is why he now found himself in the Tardis kitchen, staring blankly at row upon row of tea caddies. The Doctor, having a soft spot for humans, also had acquired a taste for the English favourite drink - tea.

But where to start? thought Ed. A good English Breakfast was about as far as his knowledge of tea went, but here was Earl Grey, Darjeeling, raspberry leaf, camomile, lemon, blackcurrant, and even a mushroom tea, which Ed supposed must be for special occasions. At last he found the English breakfast tea - proper tea inside the caddie, no tea bags. After warming the pot, Ed found a teaspoon, and muttered something his grandmother used to say, “one for each cup, and one for the pot.” He supposed he’d have at least three cups, so he put 4 spoonfuls of tea leaves into the pot and added the water, leaving it to brew. He realised the ritual of making a proper pot of tea was as important as drinking it. He felt calmer already, his breathing steady, and his thoughts reduced from a torrent to a trickle.

He knew with a sudden moment of clarity, brought by the calm, that’d he’d do anything for Claudia, as he knew she’d do anything for him. He’d stay by her, and wish for the good times to come back, but no matter what, he’d always be there. He’d known when he met her that with Claudia it was all or nothing. She did nothing by halves, and trying to curb her enthusiasm for anything she did would only cause him problems, not stop her from doing what she thought right. All he could hope to do was steer her in the right direction. She needed him for that. And he needed her for the joy and the pain she could bring him. With her, every emotion was intensely felt. She made him feel alive. She made him feel.Nothing by halves.

He found a tea strainer, which he examined closely to make sure it wasn’t one of the Doctor’s gadgets that just happened to resemble a tea strainer, then poured the tea, holding on to the lid. A dash of milk. He hoped it was milk - you couldn’t tell in a Time Machine that spent its time wandering round the Universe. Still, it had spent most of its time recently on Earth, so he felt pretty safe.

Lastly, he loaded the teapot, cup, strainer and milk onto a tray, and took them back to the sofa in the control room. He set the tray on an antique looking side table and sat down, picked up his cup and sighed, taking a sip of the tea.

Just then the door swung open and the Doctor returned. “Ah, my boy, looks like I’ve arrived just in time,” said the Doctor. “I’ll go and get another cup, and a packet of chocolate digestives.”

Ed smiled. He began to feel like things were about to take a turn for the better, for all of them. Amazing what a cup of tea can do.
Claudia
Been so busy recently, trying to write something so you know I'm still here!, - Friday, February 23, 2001 at 12:26:14 (PST)

When she woke, early the next morning, she found that they had moved closer in the night, and she was actually lying in Hamlet’s arms. She lay still for a few minutes, not sure what to do. The equines were already up and she caught Ki’li looking at her with what looked for all the world like a smile on her face. She blushed slightly, not really sure why she was embarrassed. It’s not as if men and women together isn’t a natural thing, she thought to herself. After all, she hadn’t had male company for a long time now. She shuddered gently, thinking about her previous lover, who had been the groom impaled by one of the equines. Still looking at Ki’li, she was surprised to see the equine look somewhat sheepish, before remembering that they could hear her thoughts.

”We do not normally behave this way, but the frustration of being shut in all the time, unable to use our powers and behaving in a normal pattern for us gets to some of the older ones. They are venerable, but impatient. The longer alive in the Outside, the more difficult it has been to adapt. That is why I was chosen to go with you. I was born within the habitat, and should be able to communicate with and understand you better. Zo’ran, who killed your friend, was already 20 years old when captured. He lost his mate in that chase, and is very bitter about the whole thing. He thinks we should simply walk out and leave you all to your own devices. He refuses to acknowledge the prophecies.”

Chris thought about that, and understood that it would be difficult. She had not been outside for a very long time either, and it was difficult sometimes. The equines had been provided with a sophisticated holographic projection to make it appear as though they were outside when in their exercise pen and outside of the barn, but she supposed it wasn’t really the same thing. She almost couldn’t tell the difference, but it was only based on sight, not sounds and smells, and she knew those senses were much stronger within the equines. Zo’ran had always been difficult to handle, and she could now understand why a little bit more.

”Wait a minute, what do you mean just walk out? And what is this prophecy,” Chris asked suddenly, out loud. To her consternation, Hamlet stirred and woke, and she apologised profusely. She realised she was still in his arms, and extricated herself, blushing. They both got up, apologising to each other now, and in the confusion, the conversation was lost.

“WE SHOULD GO,” Zi’el’s voice reverberated through their skulls, and the two humans grimaced with pain. “Please, Zi’el, not so loud-even I heard that all the way down to my tail!” Ki’li intervened, attempting to calm the big equine, who snorted and stamped his feet in response.

The two humans quickly got organised, and were back on the equines within minutes. Chris’ stomach growled, and she tried to remember when she’d eaten last. The evening meal can’t have been more than 14 hours ago, yet it felt like a lifetime. She also squirmed uncomfortably as she realised she needed to relieve herself.

“We will allow food and relief in a little while. We come to a communal area soon, where you should be able to do both,” Ki’li explained to both of them, having picked up her thoughts again. Chris smiled as she spotted Hamlet’s relieved expression.

They moved out of the confined little cubbyhole and moved through the deserted corridors silently. Eventually they reached corridors with ever-thickening amounts of people, until it was clear that they were nearing a communal area, as promised. These were dotted around the blocks for recreational use, and contained all sorts of entertainment-for a price. Chris blanched involuntarily as she realised which rec area they had come to, and shuddered as they wandered past one of the doors. Ki’li sent a searching thought to her, but she pushed the equine’s mind away, almost without being aware of it.

They reached a rest area, and the equines stopped by some artificial trees. “When you get off us, you will no longer be invisible, and you will be unable to see us,” Ki’li explained. “We must be hidden from view so that you are not seen appearing from nowhere. We must also stay where you will be able to find us, for you must do so without seeing us. We cannot be seen here,” she continued. The two nodded that they had understood.

They dismounted and made their way towards the rest rooms, went in and both relieved themselves and freshened up. Once finished, they met up again, and walked casually over to one of the food stalls. Chris checked her pockets for her talers, and found a fair amount. Nevertheless, she’d better not go too mad, since she didn’t know how long this adventure would last. She settled for a cooked breakfast, with some extra rolls and drinks to take with her. Hamlet did the same, and soon they were eating ravenously, not stopping to talk. They stayed sitting for a moment after finishing the meal, mainly to ensure no one would notice that they were in a hurry. No one rushed in a rec area, and they would stand out too much if they hurried now. So they stayed for a while, finishing off the last of their hot drinks, before getting up and walking casually around for a few minutes, seemingly by accident ending up by the trees where they had left the equines. She felt Ki’li’s mind probing gently again, letting her know they had moved in amongst the trees further. They almost bumped into their four-legged friends in their eagerness to find them again, and mounted quickly.

Chris
Popping head above mountain of paper for a moment, - Friday, February 23, 2001 at 09:45:19 (PST)

Dana opened her eyes to peer into the pre-dawn gloom. All was silent after the passing of the storm's fury. Moonlight shone off the skin of PL's back as he sat in the wagon's entry, witness to the clearing of the clouds.

"Where are you going?"

"I have the last watch tonight; go back to sleep."

Arms raised over her head, she indulged in a long, luxurious stretch before settling herself into their warm nest once again. How wonderful it felt to be relaxed and happy once again. The burden of ceaseless worry seemed now only a troublesome but distant memory. How could she have doubted?

"You'll wake the neighbors with your purring, Darlin'."

In response to the invitation of a slim, white arm extended from under the blankets, PL re-entered the wagon and bent to kiss her softly on the forehead. "I'll wake you later. We'll be pulling out after breakfast."
Dana
- Friday, February 23, 2001 at 07:54:08 (PST)

well, they do resemble one another.
a Rickman admirer
hugs and kisses!, - Friday, February 23, 2001 at 01:03:47 (PST)

Barton Village, near Delaford:

"Letters for you, Ma’am."

Commander Martha Hudson nods abstractedly, not bothering to glance up from the report she is writing. "Just leave them on the desk, Ensign."

A hesitation. "I . . . think you’ll want to go ahead and look at these, Ma’am."

At this, Hudson does glance up. "Oh, will I?" Seeing that the Ensign looks uncomfortable but does not flinch, Hudson relents. "Very well, then-hand them over." Bother, she thinks. This had better be--

And she stops short at the sight of the letters.

The Imperial Seal.

There is a long moment in which Hudson neither moves nor breathes. It is not as if she has never seen that mark before, but it has always been on documents of state or official correspondence to multiple recipients. To see it on something addressed to her personal care-to her, Commander Martha Hudson of the Alliance Rose . . .

Hudson breathes again, and raises an eyebrow. "You were right," she acknowledges to the Ensign. "I do need to look at these." A pause. "Privately."

The Ensign salutes and steps through the door.

Slowly, Hudson reaches for a paper knife on the desk, though she hesitates to slit open the first of these letters; whatever they contain, there can be no going back once she has read them. In the space of a few heartbeats, her mind flickers over the recent events: the raid in the West Wood, the capture of The Interrogator. The liberation of Therese.

HE is imprisoned in the Imperial Palace, awaiting Her Majesty’s pleasure as to what shall become of him, though the answer to that is-or should be-obvious. Here in Barton, the Alliance has had the tiresome job of sweeping the West Wood and surrounding areas for HIS stragglers and setting up temporary headquarters to hold the lesser prisoners they have captured. It is only recently that travel in these regions has been declared relatively safe.

That will be a relief to the Brandons she muses, smiling a little as she reflects on some of the guests who had been allowed to depart from Delaford at long last. That Vicomte-de Valmont, is it?--I think he needed us for his own safety even if HIS people aren’t lurking about any longer. That Lis woman looked ready to cut his throat. Philandering with one of the chambermaids, I’ll wager. But her amusement vanishes as she thinks of two guests who are not likely to be leaving Delaford anytime soon. Therese is still too weak to travel-and Dev certainly isn’t going anywhere without her . . .

Hudson shakes her head ; this is postponing the inevitable. Boldly, she slips the paper knife into one of the notes and opens it.

Several moments later, she has read all of the dispatches-sent to her by The Empress’ own hand and containing detailed instructions. Her duty is clear and she must begin her tasks at once.

With a pinched look on her face as though she is about to swallow bitter medicine, Hudson steps toward the door. "Ensign."

The Ensign is waiting. "Commander?"

"Find one of my Lieutenants and go over to the holding cells; there’s a prisoner I want you to bring to my office."

"Which one, Ma’am?"

"The one called Minion."

MA--beginning to gather the threads . . .
Cindie--"sternly and reproachfully." Has Mistral been taking lessons from Brandon? ;-), - Thursday, February 22, 2001 at 19:08:50 (PST)

She pulled out his file. The tab read simply …Mistral. Damn him. She stared at it. She opened it. There, on the left hand side, held fast by a clip, an 8 x 10 black and white photograph of him. Looking at her. Sternly and reproachfully. Damn him.

Sitting down at a small worktable, she turned her attention to the material on the right. Her hands were shaking and she willed them to be still. She succeeded enough to flip to the back where his original paperwork was.

She almost closed the file and put it back in the drawer. Almost. She read:

LAST NAME: Mistral
FIRST NAME: Arthur
MIDDLE NAME: S. P.

Sighing and continuing to flip forward, she looked for the rest. There were some tax forms….NAME: Mistral, Arthur SP. She went through the entire file and the only thing she knew for certain was that his first name, according to every employment form in it, was definitely Arthur. Not Patrick.

How long she sat there she had no idea.

Eventually she realized there was someone behind her.

Arthur Mistral, looking at her sternly and reproachfully.

Cindie
RA--but if she just asked him it wouldn't be as much fun to write!, - Thursday, February 22, 2001 at 17:52:25 (PST)

Egypt, present day:

Before Jack and Melanie could reply to Alexander's observation, he moved in closer so that he could see the markings on the wall more clearly. "Wait a second," he growled, eyes narrowing in suspicion. He carefully reached out with a finger to touch the fish hieroglyphic and removed it. The trio's eyebrows shot up when a large splotch of paint covered his fingertip. He raised the finger underneath his nose, sniffed the smudge and growled, "Just what I thought. It's modern paint. The colors don't match the dyes you'd see on authentic materials." He showed them the smudge as evidence.

"It's fake," Melanie murmured in shock. "What is going on here and who would do something like this?" she asked. The two men shook their heads in stunned amazement while Alexander floundered for some reasonable type of explanation to give the others.

"I don't know..." a completely flummoxed Alexander finally started to reply when he was interrupted by a shout further down the passageway. "Hello! Is there anybody out there? Help!" The voice echoed dimly back to them.

"David! Are you all right? Is anybody else with you?" Jack shouted, cupping his hands over his mouth as he called out. The three winced painfully when his voice echoed off the walls and back to them. "Sorry," he muttered.

David's voice came back to them weakly. "Nobody else is with me," he replied. "Are you okay, David?" Alexander called out. "I hurt my left ankle, but it doesn't seem to be broken," the grad student replied. "David, don't try to move from where you are! We're coming to help you as fast as we can, all right?"

"Okay, sir, but I don't think I'm..." a sharp hiss interrupted David's reply, but he continued after a short pause that only served to make the threesome even more worried than they already were. "...going anyplace anytime soon." Alexander let out his breath in a soft whoosh of relief.

"Melanie, get behind me. Jack, you take up the rear," he instructed quietly. The two immediately shifted positions to comply, mercifully not getting into an argument as they hurried to obey. "David, we're on our way. Is there anything nearby that you can use to make a louder noise?" he asked.

There was no answer for a few moments, making the already frazzled group more anxious than they already were. "Hold on..." A loud and sharp banging noise - the sound of rock against rock - was heard coming from the same direction as David's voice. "Is this better?" The banging continued in a steady rhythm.

"Yes. Keep doing that so we can figure out exactly where you are," Alexander called back. "Keep together and use the wall as a guide," he murmured. The pair nodded in silent reply and they slowly made their way down the passage. Alexander's light briefly shone into the stream beside them and they were surprised to see a school of minnows swimming in the clear water.

The banging grew louder as the passage twisted around several corners and the trio came to an abrupt halt when they saw that the passage was split in two. "Oh great," Jack muttered in disgust. "Anybody have a quarter?" he asked sarcastically. "We can flip for it."

"I don't think we'll need to do that," Alexander shook his head and frowned. "David, can you see enough to describe where you're located? We've run into a slight problem here. There's a split in the passageway where we are," he called out.

"Sorry, Professor. It's pitch-black where I am. I can tell you that I'm sitting next to a stream," David replied. "Does that help?"

The three sighed in dismay as they gazed down at the floor and at the stream that also followed down each side of the fork. "Uh, not..." Melanie started to reply when Alexander placed his free hand over her mouth and shook his head in silent warning. Melanie nodded, her eyes wide. Alexander removed his hand and yelled back in a sharper voice than he intended, "We're on our way, David!" Several banging noises echoed back in reply.

He turned around to face the others and said quietly, "It sounds like the banging and his voice is coming from the left side, but the echoing makes it hard to make an exact determination." He paused for a moment as he made a decision. "We'll try to see if he's there first for as far as we can proceed. If he's not there, we'll make our way back and head down the right side." The two nodded and they entered the left-side passage cautiously.

The sound of David banging his rock against the surface grew louder as they continued moving against the passage wall. "Professor, is it my imagination, or does it seem like the water sound is getting louder too?" Jack asked. "You're right. It is getting louder," Alexander replied uneasily as they turned another corner. The three skidded to an abrupt halt as they saw the passage ended in a sharp drop, the water from the stream cascading down into a deep pool several feet below. "That was a little too close for comfort," Melanie whispered.

"Professor! Jack! Melanie! Over here! Boy, am I glad to see you guys!" David's voice called out. Alexander waved his flashlight around frantically in the direction of his voice and was relieved to see that he was sitting approximately thirty feet across from them on the other side of what appeared to be a cavern. "Guess we picked the wrong side after all," Alexander muttered, somewhat chagrined at his mistake.

David squinted as the light hit his face and he raised his hand over his eyes to shield them. They saw that aside from his ankle and several cuts and bruises on his face and arms, he appeared to be relatively unhurt. "David, we're going back and coming in the other direction. We should be with you shortly," Alexander called out. David nodded and watched as the three turned around to make their way back down the passage.

The trio arrived at David's side a bit later, looking none the worse for wear as they knelt down next to him. "Could you take this?" Alexander asked Melanie, holding the flashlight out. "Sure," she replied soberly and held the light down at David's foot. Alexander reached out and carefully felt David's ankle. The young man hissed but otherwise kept silent. "Sorry about that," he apologized. "You're right. Nothing appears to be broken. Do you remember what happened to you?" he asked.

David frowned as Jack helped him to his feet and cursed softly when he tried putting weight down on his left side. "I'm afraid I don't remember much of anything. The last thing I remember was falling down in the darkness and I could hear the others yelling for help. I hit my head on something and the next thing I knew, I was sitting in the middle of a puddle of water," he rubbed the middle of his forehead, which was starting to get a nasty-looking lump. He leaned against Jack for support and gazed wearily at the others. "This wasn't exactly in the description when I signed up," he observed wryly.

"Same thing here," Alexander rejoined tartly. "Do you think you can walk?" he asked. "I think so - or at least I can hobble," David replied. "This should be easy after everything that's happened so far." Jack shook his head and snorted. "Yeah, just like tossing fish into a rubber barrel," he remarked. "Let's get out of here."

"Agreed. We'll fill you in on what we know as we move along," Alexander said as Melanie gave the flashlight back to him. The four carefully moved along the wall, Alexander moving slightly ahead of the others. Their voices echoed back into the cavern as they continued their search for the missing members of their party.

Sandy ~ Yikes, Cindie! Somebody pass the 9-inch chocolate covered nails, please....
Happy Birthday, Mr. Rickman! , - Wednesday, February 21, 2001 at 14:04:47 (PST)

She could ask him what the explanation is.
a Rickman admirer
I know it's a story......at least I think I do., - Wednesday, February 21, 2001 at 13:43:03 (PST)

MA:what a lovely song! Once again:Happy birthday to m.r Alan Rickman!
anna
- Wednesday, February 21, 2001 at 07:33:48 (PST)

Singing: "Happy Birthday, Mister Rickman . . . Happy Birthday to youuuuuuu . . ."

MA, contralto-at-large
Cover your ears, everybody! ;-), - Wednesday, February 21, 2001 at 05:26:04 (PST)

She stood there a moment, uncertain. It seemed as though he had deliberately deceived her. That day, when he’d prepared that elaborate tea for her, he’d said his name was Patrick. And later, at the Halloween party, when they were dancing… so close. She closed her eyes. He’d said that it was just for her alone. But it wasn’t true. It wasn’t his name at all. What kind of game was he playing with her? The temptation to know was too strong. She deliberately walked into the Director’s office, took the keys from their place and went to the office annex where the files were kept and unlocked the door. There it was. “K to N.” Her answer lay within that drawer. Hands shaking she fumbled for the smaller key that would fit the lock on the cabinet drawer.

Cindie
- Tuesday, February 20, 2001 at 15:29:05 (PST)

At Suzanne’s Party:

Although he was gifted to Suzanne for her birthday, Mistral seemed to make it a point to join Cindie as soon as practicable. Sidling in next to her, he placed his arm around her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. The gesture did not go unappreciated. Cindie was enjoying the punch and talking to Rupert and thought it a very gallant thing to do. She and Rupert had been speculating on the apparent kick that the punch seemed to have acquired. Someone brought up the issue of birthday spankings and Mistral very adamantly indicated, as he waved his glass, that he had no intention of giving his captor any reason to retaliate, since Mary Anne seemed determined to keep his character at such a *disadvantage*. The discussion went on and Cindie headed over to the other side of the room to test her theory about the punch.

Pausing as she passed the table that held the cake, Cindie looked over her shoulder to regard Patrick Mistral. The lively discussion was still going on and he had enlisted Brandon’s aid in making his case that Mary Anne had a thing for seeing him ‘all tied up’. He had such presence. That he was aware of his physical attributes she had no doubt. His profession ensured that. But at the same time he seemed to possess this awareness without any vanity or conceit on his part. He had played things very close where she was concerned. For the most part. She turned back and spotted the likely suspects and headed in their direction.

“Oh, Ed?” She crooned in his ear as she came up behind him. Claudia and Ed looked over, it was hard to say which of them looked more sheepish.

“Yes, love. Do you want to pose for me, then?” He now looked a combination of mischievous and hopeful.

“Claudia, does he ever get any less shameless?”

“No. Never. You know better than that by now don’t you?”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Cindie admitted, laughing. “But own up you two, what did you put in that punch?” At their guilty faces she added, “and have you got any more of it?”

“What? I’m a complete innocent. A little lamb lost in the big wide world…” Ed might have continued on indefinitely had Claudia not elbowed him in the side. She was decked out in a red cocktail dress that showed off her figure. Ed didn’t seem to mind the elbow in the ribs as it gave him a view of which he took full advantage .

“Little lamb? A black sheep you mean.” Claudia patted Ed on the chest. She winked at Cindie and nodded back in the direction from which she’d come. “Your Arthur looks like he’s holding court over there.”

“Arthur?” Cindie looked over, puzzled, to where Claudia had indicated. Mistral was proclaiming something about the trials of being at the mercy of all the women. “Oh yes, in your story line about the *accountant*, HE was Arthur wasn’t he?”

“Well, you know we have a habit of using our real names for our characters. Not terribly imaginative I suppose, but it works for us.”

Ed was cradling something rather awkwardly under his painting smock. He shot her a wicked smile and somehow managed to pour out a glass of something without revealing its source and handed the glass to Cindie. She smiled at him and absently commented that she’d thought her suspicions correct. He and Claudia headed back to the punch bowl while Cindie took a sip of whatever it was that was in her glass. Had she been in full possession of her senses she probably wouldn’t have done so without at least giving it a good sniff test. Fortunately it was simply champagne.

At Claudia’s off hand comment Cindie had made her remark and turned her attention once again to… Arthur. She now saw him in almost slow motion, his words just a blur of sound. Had he lied to her? Could it be that he was so guarded that he had resisted in telling her something so basic as his name. Without thinking she set down her glass, a plastic cup, it didn’t quite land on the table, but she had emptied it so the plastic made little noise as it hit the floor. She began walking out and before she realized it she was in the area where the Director had his office and where she knew the personnel files were kept. And she knew where the key was.

Cindie
Claudia -- If you want any more havoc you'll have to create it yourelf.
MA -- That fur, That Brandon, mmmmmmm., - Monday, February 19, 2001 at 17:48:18 (PST)

"Ouch," comments Mary Anne between bites of scone and sips of hot chocolate.

Aside from a few twinges, her ankle had not troubled her during her vigorous snowball fight with Brandon. Once he had determined she was not seriously injured, he had repaid her for the snowballs she had thrown at him . . .

Mary Anne grins, remembering how their laughter had echoed across the fields, her shrieks mingling with his roars of pretended outrage as they pummelled each other with snowballs-and her grin widens as she thinks of the expression on Brandon’s face at the moment when she had managed to get his coat open and stuff a handful of snow down his shirt.

Her ankle had started to pain her again on the walk back to the house, and by the time Brandon had escorted her upstairs to get out of her damp clothes and into her dressing gown and warm slippers, the pain had settled into the steady throbbing that now causes her to grimace involuntarily as Joanna McCoy, summoned by Brandon, examines her.

"Ouch," exclaims Mary Anne with somewhat more energy as McCoy rotates the injured ankle from side to side.

"Does it really hurt that much, Mary Anne, or are you just trying to be difficult?" grins McCoy. Mary Anne smiles back, but sucks in her breath involuntarily as her ankle is flexed again, and McCoy nods as if that confirmed a guess. "All right, then; you’re lucky, this time. Nothing broken or sprained. You’ve managed to strain the muscles-there are a few directions a human ankle isn’t meant to turn, and you found one of them."

"What a discovery," mutters Mary Anne, as Brandon turns from building up the already-blazing fire to ask, "What must be done for her?"

"It’s nothing serious, Colonel. I’d suggest she stay right where she is for most of the day and give that ankle a rest; it should be much better by tomorrow. It might be a bit stiff and sore for a while, but not like it is now. I’ll check in again to make sure, but I don’t think it even needs bandaging. Just a little TLC. The important thing is not to make the strain worse, so-" McCoy turns toward Mary Anne and lifts a finger in mock-severity. "-you stay right where you are, understand?"

"Just what you need," teases Mary Anne, whose sense of mischief is obviously none the worse for wear. "Another patient who’s supposed to keep still and doesn’t want to. How is Therese, by the way?" she inquires with her most wide-eyed innocent expression.

"She’ll be fine," snaps McCoy, "if Mister De Valera will allow her to recover."

Brandon raises an inquiring eyebrow and Mary Anne looks down at the bedclothes to hide her own mirth. God knows what Joanna found when she went to the stables . . .

"Well." McCoy rises from the bed. "This isn’t getting anything done. I’ll be back to check on you later, Mary Anne; till then, I’ll say good morning. Colonel," she nods to Brandon, and then she is gone.

Brandon stands before the fire, gazing down at Mary Anne, who returns his gaze from among the heaped-up pillows on the bed.

"TLC?" he inquires.

"Tender Loving Care," replies Mary Anne.

"Oh. And what does that mean, do you suppose?"

"I have no idea," coos Mary Anne. "Perhaps she thinks you’re supposed to kiss it and make it better."

Brandon lifts an eyebrow and saunters over to the bed, where he seats himself and takes Mary Anne’s ankle in his hands. She tenses involuntarily, expecting any touch to hurt, but slowly relaxes as Brandon begins to rub her ankle, gently but firmly, the stiffness and ache melting away beneath his warm, strong fingers.

"Mmmmmmmm," she purrs. And as Brandon briefly pauses in his attentions: "Don’t stop."

"Believe me, my dearest-" So softly, it raises the hairs on the back of Mary Anne’s neck. "-I have no intention of stopping."

Slowly, Brandon lowers his head, carefully raising Mary Anne’s foot just enough for him to touch his lips to the injured ankle. Again. And again, the stillness between them like a caught breath.

"There." That deep, low note in his voice; Mary Anne has learned to know it. "Is that . . . better?"

"Some," exhales Mary Anne.

"Then I must continue . . . until a cure is effected, must I not?"

"Yes. Yes, I believe you must."

Brandon examines Mary Anne’s foot once more, pulling away her fur-lined slipper . . . and then he pauses to give the slipper a second look, flexing it between his hands. Assuring himself that it is soft and pliable, he turns it inside-out, slipping it over one hand like a glove, and returns to drawing his hand-now encased in fur-over Mary Anne’s skin once more.

The warmth of his fingers, even through the thicknesses of fabric and fur . . . the soft stroking, the repeated kisses . . . soft . . .

"Christopher," manages Mary Anne. "That is not my ankle-"

MA--Brandon as massage therapist. Perhaps he should open a practice with Jutta? ;-)
Claire and Dana--have fun! Cindie--thanks for the inspiration. *grin*, - Sunday, February 18, 2001 at 18:29:12 (PST)

He was not coming back.

Singular preoccupation had stared back as she proffered the hat. Sinclair's thoughts were beyond the storm but evidently not yet defined for discussion. As the brim tickled his nose the smile, not words, acknowledged thanks.

Planting the rain darkened Stetson back in place he had turned on his heel and left the Mission building.

Such times of exclusion were rare. Claire understood the need for occasional solitude but tonight, when the clashing of clouds seemed to signal the world's demise, she would have given much to be warm and protected.

Not within this sturdy building, but a body. Enfolded and loved.

Instead she wrapped the blanket tightly about and tried to stop counting the seconds between lightening and thunder.

Claire
From Gold Rush country for real ... in WA ... with Dana. Reality and fiction collide!, - Sunday, February 18, 2001 at 01:18:48 (PST)

Well, that question is certainly a piece of cake . . . *grin*

P.O.C.
- Saturday, February 17, 2001 at 16:59:14 (PST)

O.K., I'll *bite*, what is a P.O.C.?
Getting hungry
USA - Saturday, February 17, 2001 at 16:56:19 (PST)

I'll have you understand that the snacks of FOF are edibles of honour. We do not quiche and tell.

P.O.C.
- Saturday, February 17, 2001 at 15:29:35 (PST)

LOL--a post from a piece of cake . . . I suspect it could happen here!
:-)
- Saturday, February 17, 2001 at 09:53:17 (PST)

Hey, if that piece of cake wants to post anything it was witness too....
Cindie
- Friday, February 16, 2001 at 17:59:48 (PST)

Back at lunchtime:

Now where did she go? Mistral spotted her grabbing another cup and seating herself at a table. Carrying his tray to the table he sat across from her, although he really did not want a table between them. He smiled at her, the expression encompassing his entire face. He couldn’t help it. She looked so beautiful and she had no idea of it. He watched as she meticulously fished out every bit of ice from her water with a spoon and placed it in the extra cup. It seemed like such a silly thing to do. . ”What are you doing?” he asked, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice.

Cindie looked up at him, her expression sheepish, “I don’t like ice. It bothers my teeth, but I like my water cold.” She tilted her head to one side, “Are you learning more about me than you wanted to?”

He touched her hand, the contact was brief but it left his fingertips tingling, “That would not be possible, my dear.” They began to eat their salads.

“Does it bother you,” she began then halted. Trying again, “does it matter to you that people have noticed, … that is…,” she was clearly having trouble with this line of thought.

Mistral interrupted, his tone soothing, “does it bother me that we might be a topic of …interest?” Cindie nodded. “No,” he stated flatly. “It is only natural. I do not, however, kiss and tell.” At this he flashed his teeth at her. Teeth and heart. The effect was dazzling.

Cindie gave an inward sigh and resumed her lunch. She finished her salad and reached for her ice cream. He had to ask. “Now *that* is a half melted puddle. Why didn’t you go back for it so it would be cold?”

“I like it this way.” He shook his head and she couldn’t resist teasing him. “ Sure this isn’t too much information?”

“Yes, quite sure, more for me to file away for future use.” Somehow he imbued this with a sense that he was gathering major intelligence.

She set her spoon down. “I have to ask, did you get into trouble on my account? The Director was so angry…”

“No. We had a talk. Everything is fine.” He realized she was truly concerned, for him. It have him a feeling of well being that he found surprising. “We arrived at an *understanding*.” He recalled her early arrival this morning, “how about you?”

“Oh. Yes. Fine. I guess you could say we arrived at an *understanding* as well.”

“Good.”

They finished lunch. Cindie looked over at her luncheon companion. “I don’t know if we should have lunch together again.”

A slight flexing of his right hand. “Why not?”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to get a thing done this afternoon.”

The hand relaxed, splayed out on the tabletop. “Yes.” He looked at her and wondered that she was so candid with him. “I will look forward to this evening.”

“But this evening you are gifted to another.” Her eyes danced as she spoke this last with a despairing tone.

“I shall be yours again before the night is through.” He intoned dramatically.

Reluctantly, they left the lunchroom, he to his dungeon prison and she to her afternoon tasks.
Cindie
- Friday, February 16, 2001 at 17:56:20 (PST)

FoF Set, early evening:

Alexander leaned back in his chair at his desk, closing his eyes as he stretched his tired muscles luxuriously one by one. Mmm, that feels so good... A soft knock on the side wall of his cubicle combined with an even softer voice interrupted his silent reverie. "Alex?"

He stopped in mid-stretch and opened his eyes halfway to see Sandy standing in the doorway of his cubicle with an uncertain expression on her face to his surprise. "Hi Sandy. Come on in and take a seat," he invited the petite writer with a smile, patting the guest chair beside his. He noticed she was carrying a dish that contained a slice of birthday cake. "What's up?"

"You didn't come to Suzanne's surprise birthday celebration. I thought you'd like a piece of the cake," she replied as she entered his cubicle and sat down next to him. She gave him the dish and a fork. "Thanks," he took the proffered dish with a grateful smile. His left eyebrow raised up sardonically. "I was rather...uh, preoccupied with other things at the time," he rumbled before spearing the cake with the fork.

Sandy's cheeks colored slightly. "That stuff was pretty sticky, wasn't it?" she admitted, biting her lower lip. Alex stopped in mid-chew, a frown crossing his features. "And just how do you know that?" he asked softly after swallowing.

Her face turned pinker and she scrunched down in her seat, closing her eyes. "Uh, I visited the guys making the slime last night and I told them it wasn't sticky enough," she confessed quickly. Dead silence greeted her. She cautiously opened one eye to gauge his reaction.

Alex gazed at her calmly and took another bite of the cake. She watched as his hand gracefully lifted the fork to his lips and placed it in his mouth. He removed the fork, chewed slowly and swallowed, his eyes never leaving hers. "I told them it didn't smell bad," he informed her.

Sandy blinked, opening and closing her mouth a few times before any sound came out. "You told them to make it stink?" she uttered in a strangled whisper. Alex's lips quirked up in amusement. "You do want an accurate portrayal of your story line, don't you?" he asked, innocent-faced.

"Well, yes, but..." she sputtered, shaking her head in disbelief. "Method actors!" she growled finally. Alex laughed, the rich sound echoing in the mostly unoccupied area. "I'm surprised that Melanie and Jack didn't mutiny right then and there."

"And I'm surprised you're still invited to their wedding next month. You torture them mercilessly," Alex observed, attacking the rest of the cake with relish. A bit of frosting clung to the right upper side of his top lip.

Sandy merely shrugged her shoulders and grinned. "Jack said they look at it as an opportunity to kiss and make up as much as possible." Alex returned the smile. "Kissing is good. VERY good," Alex replied softly, his eyes focusing in on hers. She lowered her eyes, shifted in her seat, pointed at her mouth and said, "You have frosting right over there..."

"Oh. Thanks," he murmured, licking his lips slowly. "Uh, you missed," she said huskily, swallowing audibly. Alex's eyes smoldered as he leaned close to her, just inches away from her face. "Why don't you show me where it is?" he purred in her ear, his breath gently tickling her cheek.

Sandy gazed at him for a moment in silence before leaning over and placing her mouth over his. Alex ran his long fingers through her hair as the kiss deepened while she cupped his face with her hands.

Alex broke the kiss reluctantly, nuzzling her cheek. She sighed deeply, leaning against him and chuckled softly when his stomach growled loudly. "Still hungry?" she whispered. Alex's eyebrow lifted again and she blushed furiously, shaking her head. He laughed quietly before his mouth swooped down on hers again briefly. "Does that answer your question?" he asked. She nodded, unable to find her voice.

He rose to his feet and held out his hand for her to take. She took it as she rose to her feet, gazing up at him with wide eyes. "That's the first time I've ever seen you speechless," he teased gently, reaching out to touch her cheek affectionately. "Seriously though, I am hungry. There's a new seafood restaurant within walking distance of here." His hazel eyes began twinkling. "I understand they make a mean Manhattan clam chowder," he added in.

Sandy's eyes sparkled. "That's heresy!" she growled softly. Alex smirked as he slipped his leather jacket over his sweater. "I thought that would get your attention. Are you interested?"

"Sure. Just let me get my coat and purse," she said softly. He followed her to her cubicle where she shut down her computer and grabbed her belongings. He offered the crook of his arm to her and she took it with a smile. They walked down the hallway and passed by the security guard, wishing him goodnight before walking out into the crisp evening.

Sandy
Adding in belated happy birthday wishes to Suzanne. I hope you had a great one!, - Friday, February 16, 2001 at 14:16:30 (PST)

Alan Rickman...there`s no man like him.And hes so brittish..!
anna
I just love this page!(but I hope more pictures here...soon?), - Friday, February 16, 2001 at 11:41:52 (PST)

They gaze at each other over the table, so much unsaid, so much needing to be said. One of them takes a bite, the other gazes at the fork, lifting to the mouth, which opens and the mouthful disappears. One of them lifts a glass, a beautiful goblet, full of red wine, and drinks slowly. Their eyes do not leave the other.

One of them looks at the roses the other has bought, and smiles sadly. They stand tall and proud in the vase, red petals glowing softly in the candle-light. The other catches the gaze, and follows it. Below the roses are the two cards. Both remarkably similar, yet different.

Dinner is over, and they move over to the sofa. Anyone watching would think it was a normal couple, on Valentine's eve. But there is nothing ordinary about this evening for them. The harsh words, not yet forgotten, still ringing in the air. Their first real fight, on Valentine's of all evenings. Neither one can remember what started it, but although they no longer fight, there is a distance between them, a tension that will not break.

They sit in the sofa, staring at the tv for a little while, until one turns to the other. They both look at each other for half a second? A minute? Five? Neither one knows, but it seems like an eternity. No words have been said for several hours, and the tension is almost tangible. One of them feels a small tear at the corner of an eye, and allows it to fall. One of them says "I'm sorry". Suddenly both are crying, holding each other, apologising to each other, trying to explain without really managing to say anything at all.

One of them kisses the other gently. They both smile. The tension has been replaced by a totally different kind of tension in the air. One of them lifts a hand, strokes a cheek, runs five fingers through short hair. The tv forgotten, they cuddle closely, kissing each other intermittently, enjoying each other's company. After some time, all that can be heard is the deep breathing of two people making love.

Hours later, one of them stirs, and wakes. Looks down at the other, sleeping so close, and smiles. What were they fighting about? Who cares?! This is love, like none other.
Chris
All is in the eye of the beholder, - Thursday, February 15, 2001 at 15:11:51 (PST)

Scene: The FOF wardrobe room annex.

The smell of past and future episodes, and steam, from the duty-driven costume caretakers who keep everything clean and in order.

And cake. Definitely, the sweet smell of cake.

Rustling.

"Forget it!" At his voice she jumps a mile--or high enough, at least, to bang her head on the closet bar.

"Hans!" She pushes vaguely at him with her free left hand, her plate--precarious--the half-eaten piece of cake defying gravity, in the other. She uprights the china, and stands like a man at a mark, with a whole army shooting at her. *homage*

"You're SNEAK-ing cake." The accusatory tone from Hans sends a chill and thrill up her spine. She had missed the sound of his voice. Some things never change.

She nods.

"Does anyone know you're here?" His eagle eyes do not leave her. He knows they are alone.

She shrugs. "Suzanne. I wanted to wish her a happy birthday. But I didn't want to make a big scene--"

Hans bites back the urge to contradict her.

"--and I'm late. I tried to get here sooner . . " She looks up at him; imposing, that look of amusement, mixed with the pleasure of finding her. She regards his face as one would regard the face of a David--to outward appearances a stone statue, unchanging. But to the trained and practiced eye, rich expression carved in inquiline nuance.

She feels herself in sharp focus. Flushes to the ends of her hair, as he speaks.

"Then, shall we make up for lost time?"

The cake sits, a sole witness, quite forgotten.

Happy Birthday, Suzanne!
Great idea, MA! Cindie--Thank Hans for the Valentine! --R , - Thursday, February 15, 2001 at 11:02:44 (PST)

Sometime in an alternate timeline:

He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Very quietly he padded over to the window and pulled back the curtain, just a bit. Now the moonlight bathed her face, its light too subtle to wake her. Returning to bed he sat cross-legged with his back to the window and thought about the evening. It had gone far better than he had dared to hope. Having invited her to dinner and dancing she was not at all fazed to discover that these activities were to take place in his flat.

He had prepared dinner while she sipped the Chablis he had selected for her and sampled his classical CD collection. They ate. They danced. He had moved the furniture back so they would have sufficient room. She was a beautiful dancer, had followed his lead without fear or trepidation. Had even improvised here and there. Her dress was cut low in the back and he had stroked her as they clung to each other. After awhile they sat down on the floor. She leaned back on his leather chair and he had brought more wine. He sat across from her and they talked. Talking was not the only component.

When he had asked her what she wanted from a man she spared him no details. Tossing his head back and laughing he had declared that any ten men could live up to her expectations, since she wanted so many qualities no one man could possibly possess them all. She had feigned indignation but laughed at herself too. She admitted her expectations might be a bit high and had asked him what he wanted. He had answered her quickly and truthfully, “To watch you sleep.” At first she started to laugh but then became thoughtful. He could see her mulling over the myriad of meanings to his statement. One of the things that delighted him about her was her utter lack of artifice.

They kissed. They loved. When he carried her into the bedroom she had kept running her hands through his hair. This activity gave her much pleasure and he indulged her to the fullest. He had endeavored to indulge her in all the pleasures of which he was capable. She had been responsive, eager. Had given him as much pleasure as he had given her.

As he watched she reached out for him. He lay down next to her as her hand reached out and found him. Her hand caressed his chest. After a moment she rolled onto her back and her hair made a halo around her head. Her auburn highlights shone in the moonlight. One hand lay across her throat and the other lay next to him. He propped himself on one elbow and stroked her hair, careful not to disturb her. Perhaps in the morning he would wash it for her. She rolled back onto her side now, facing him and seemed to settle in. He positioned himself with his head on the same pillow, his body a mirror image of hers - and watched her sleep.

Cindie
Happy Valentine's Day -- Here's my post gratuitous nooky post.
Please someone else put one out here too so I'm not all alone!, - Wednesday, February 14, 2001 at 17:50:22 (PST)

Hmmm... I think that's a question for MA. :-) Though I suppose HE might have a say in it!

Suzanne
A big red bow? :-), - Wednesday, February 14, 2001 at 13:49:05 (PST)

Happy Birthday Suzanne...about your present-does it also come in leather?
a Rickman admirer
my birthday is in August, and I will take one in red, please, - Wednesday, February 14, 2001 at 01:10:08 (PST)

WOW! I really can't believe this! I never had a surprise birthday party before. Thank you so much! Ohhhh, and my present -- I had so much fun unwrapping..... him. *grin*
Thanks, everyone, for the Happy Birthday wishes!

Suzanne
I'm on my second piece of cake. :-), - Tuesday, February 13, 2001 at 13:27:07 (PST)

Have a Merry Birthday Suzanne!
Cindie
Chris -- With tongs of course., - Tuesday, February 13, 2001 at 06:42:56 (PST)

Happy Birthday Suzanne!
Chris
Drowning in work, coming up briefly for air! And I'm curious...how does one edit lettuce??, - Tuesday, February 13, 2001 at 05:48:41 (PST)

And it is a VERY special occasion--Happy Birthday to the "Empress" Suzanne, who makes all this madness possible, with thanks for her time and devotion to the task. 8-D

MA
(Trying to hide a HUGE piece of cake from The Director . . .), - Tuesday, February 13, 2001 at 05:29:25 (PST)

FOF set--flash forward to the evening:

"Suzanne, would you mind stepping back down here for a moment?"

Suzanne looks up to see The Director gesturing to her. She had been preparing to leave the set for the day but hangs her jacket back on its peg and asks, "What is it?"

"You're needed back down on the dungeon set. We're discussing a few more ideas for the storyline coming up--"

Suzanne looks puzzled. "I thought everything was settled."

The Director raises his eyebrows. "Well, you know how Mary Anne is when she gets these brainwaves . . ."

Suzanne laughs. "Yes, I do! All right. I'm coming."

A few moments later, Suzanne finds herself being escorted to the dungeon set and instinctively moves a bit closer to The Director as they approached the cell in which The Interrogator is supposed to be currently imprisoned.

Dark down here, thinks Suzanne, with a little shiver. Spooky--you don't notice it so much with the shooting, but after hours . . .

And suddenly, The Director is no longer by her side but has silently slipped away, and Suzanne finds herself alone on the grim and shadowy set, hearing faint sounds of movement in the echoing darkness . . .

"Sir?" she calls out, tentatively. Then, stronger: "Hello? Is anybody THERE?!"

Suddenly, the lights blaze and there is a shout of "SURPRISE!!!"

Suzanne's hands go to her mouth in astonishment, for there are the cast members gathered in the cell, singing, "Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday dear Suzanne . . ."

And then, the crowd parts, to reveal . . .

The bed in the cell.

Mistral is lying on the bed, his wrists fastened to the frame with the velcro manacles that had been used with Therese. They are trimmed with red fur from the gag handcuffs that George had once been in the habit of carrying about with him. And in place of his customary tie, there is a red ribbon around his neck.

"Happy birthday to YOUUUUU!!" The song ends and the cast members burst into applause, as Mistral shrugs--no mean feat, in this position. "I'll have you know this was all Mary Anne's idea . . ."

"Why, you--" protests the grinning Mary Anne, making as if reach over and hit him, but Brandon holds her back. "Now, Mary Anne, he's her present, after all. Don't be greedy."

Suzanne glances over at Cindie, who seems to be enjoying the joke as much as any of them, but at that moment everyone starts crying, "Speech! Speech!" as The Director leads Suzanne to a clear spot beside the bed.

Blushing and laughing, Suzanne exclaims, "I can't believe this! What a great present . . ." As she cuts her eyes toward the bed, to intercept a wink from Mistral that makes her laugh all over again. "Thanks, everybody. Should I, um . . ." Slyly. " . . . unwrap him now, or wait until later?"

Whistles and catcalls. "Now!" "Unwrap him NOW!" "No time like the present!" "So to speak--"

To the accompaniment of whistles and cheers, Suzanne seats herself on the bed and unties the red bow around Mistral's neck, then bends forward and make a great show of planting a kiss right on the tip of his elegant nose.

There is a rrrrrrrip as the velcro manacles open, and Mistral puts his arms about Suzanne in--as Mary Anne is wont to phrase it--a "big ol' squeezy hug," and murmurs, "Happy Birthday to you, Your Majesty."

Applause, and then The Director holds up his hand for attention. "Cake and punch are available down the hall." Catching Mary Anne's look, he smiles and gives an exaggerated sigh. "And yes, Mary Anne, you may have a piece of cake. One piece. This is a special occasion!"

MA--for a look at the fuzzy cuffs, see the Prop Room on Claudia's Solo Flights page. Shameless plug here, Claudia.
"He ruthlessly edited the lettuce . . ." For some reason, that just makes me giggle. 8-), - Tuesday, February 13, 2001 at 05:27:00 (PST)

They arrived at the lunchroom. Cindie was conscious now of the murmurings that accompanied their entrance. They took their place in line and made their selections. Everyone from time to time made fun of the cafeteria food, but in truth it was usually quite good. The fish sticks being a notable exception.

Thinking of Mary Anne being subjected to tofu and bean sprouts, Cindie opted for a salad. Too many nice dinners were taking their toll. She also took several bread sticks and a dish of ice cream. No sense going crazy with calorie counting. She watched Mistral create his salad from the salad bar. The man was approaching it like an artist creating a masterpiece. He ruthlessly edited the lettuce, picked the ripest tomato, found the most perfect mushroom. She wondered to herself if the man did anything by halves. Unbidden the thought took her places that were most definitely not appropriate for a salad bar. Grabbing a tall glass of ice water she found a seat.
Cindie
Looking forward to a spot of mischief.:-), - Monday, February 12, 2001 at 17:57:03 (PST)

Sandy, up to mischief?? Uh oh, Alex, I'd get out of there while you still can!
Chris
Ducking, quickly!, - Monday, February 12, 2001 at 15:04:16 (PST)

Egypt, present day:

Alexander's heart raced wildly as he plummeted face-first down the tunnel, his arms stretched out before him. He could just barely make out the lanky figure of Jack sliding in front of him before they turned a corner and dropped down again. He lifted his head as far up as he could in order to avoid getting any of the slimy substance in his mouth or nose.

"WHOA!" Jack yelled as he disappeared from Alexander's view as the opening suddenly widened and he heard a loud thud. Alexander slid in right behind him, landing in an undignified heap on top of Jack, his breath coming out in a loud whoosh. There was some muffled cursing as the two men attempted to untangle themselves. Limbs and slime flew about as the two pulled themselves apart, making loud squishy noises as they did so. They lay on the stone floor for a few moments, panting loudly as they caught their breath.

"Are you guys all right?" The two men squinted as a beam of light shone into their faces. They could make out the slime-covered figure of Melanie gazing down at them in concern.

"A bit of a drop? A bit of an understatement on your part," Alexander remarked acidly as he painfully rose to his feet, Jack following suit with a loud groan.

Melanie shrugged her shoulders stiffly as she watched them get up. "I never claimed to be an expert in underground tunnels," the redhead replied in the same tone, folding her arms across her chest as a scowl crossed her features. Alexander could hear Jack muttering under his breath, "Nope. I'm not gonna say it, no matter how tempting it is." Thank God for little favors, he thought to himself.

"Never mind that. Tom! Colleen, anybody?!" he called out, Melanie and Jack joining in. Their voices echoed back to them, but no answering replies were heard. "This is not good," Jack murmured unhappily.

"I guess we better see just where we are now and hope that we can find the others," Alexander sighed as he held out his hand for the flashlight. Melanie handed it over to him without saying a word. He shone the flashlight around and the trio saw that they had landed in what appeared to be a cave of some sort with a wide passageway. They could hear water running in the same direction. "At least it doesn't stink and there's none of that blasted slime," Melanie said hopefully. The two men nodded in agreement as they cautiously approached the passageway.

The three walked down the passageway slowly, using the stone wall for a guide as they moved forward. "I could swear that this was actually cut out, it's so smooth," Jack said softly. "I don't know, but I just want to find the others and get out of here." Melanie observed tartly and paused for a moment before continuing. "What else could possibly go wrong?" she asked.

Just then, the flashlight went out and the trio were plunged into darkness.

"That was a rhetorical question," Melanie groaned.

"Sorry, my hand slipped on the on/off switch," Alexander rumbled. "Can't keep a good hold on it with this bloody slime all over me." The two could hear him fumbling in the darkness for a few seconds before the beam re-emerged. "Hopefully the battery doesn't run out too soon since we don't have another one with us."

As they continued walking, they could hear the sound of the water running getting louder and they found themselves standing in a large open room where a stream flowed in the middle, heading down another passage. The three gratefully knelt down and cleaned the slime off their faces, arms and legs as best as they could.

"It's not a shower, but it'll have to do," Alexander observed with a slight smile as they rose to their feet and continued their journey downstream, calling out members of their missing party's names to no avail. He suddenly halted and the two bumped into him. "What's the matter, Professor?" Jack asked, favoring Melanie with a dirty look for a moment.

"Look at this," Alexander ignored the two glaring at each other as he shone the flashlight against the wall. The three could just make out the faintest hint of hieroglyphics - a fish, water, a sun, and what appeared to be people carrying stones on their backs, but they couldn't be sure. "It appears your guess about this being man-made may not be too far off the mark, Jack."

Sandy - tofu and bean sprouts? Yuck!
Time to cause a little mischief of my own...., - Monday, February 12, 2001 at 13:22:23 (PST)

FOF set:

As Mistral and Cindie are headed for the lunchroom, they encounter Mary Anne in the hallway, her face clouded with a frown that would curdle new milk.

"Good heavens," exclaims Mistral, dramatically lifting his hand as if to shield his eyes, for which he is rewarded with a mutter of, "Oh, you!" and a reluctant smile.

Cindie takes the more straightforward approach. "Mary Anne, is something wrong?"

Mistral, though naturally sympathetic to whatever is troubling Mary Anne, is in a buoyant mood at the prospect of lunch with Cindie and cannot put by his lightheartedness so easily. "A case of writer's block, perhaps? Well, just invent something dreadful between The Empress and The Interrogator and those ideas will simply flow, Mary Anne; I have no doubt of it." A wicked twinkle in his eyes. "Since you seem to have this thing about seeing me tied up . . ."

Mary Anne rallies and grins back. "Why, Mistral, I'm only trying to make you more accessible to your fans!"

All three of them laugh together, but only for a moment as Mary Anne's gloomy expression returns. "No, it's just that I'm supposed to have an appointment with Jutta today."

Cindie nods. "She's the new therapist, isn't she? Well, that doesn't sound so horrible--"

"Maybe not," replies Mary Anne, "but I don't like being examined and prodded and fussed over--"

Mistral's gaze sharpens. "So. Why do you have this appointment? If you don't mind my asking, of course."

Mary Anne shakes her head. "I fainted in my cubicle yesterday." At Cindie's exclamation of concern, she hastens to add, "Nothing serious; at least, I don't think so. But The Director does. And he ordered me to see Jutta, who's probably going over my health file at his very moment." Mary Anne makes a face. "And His Directorial Majesty--" She looks around to make certain The Director is nowhere near; he has a habit of appearing at the worst possible time. "--said she'd oversee my diet as well. Probably six months of bean sprouts and tofu. Yuck!"

Cindie cannot help laughing at Mary Anne's outburst, and neither can Mistral, though he does step near enough to lay a companionable hand on her shoulder. "A torture truly worthy of The Interrogator. I must speak with The Director about cutting into HIS territory!" Then, gravely: "But I think you must do as he says. Fainting away in your cubicle is serious, you know. He's concerned about you. We all are."

Mary Anne smiles. "Thank you."

"Meanwhile--" Mistral gestures for Mary Anne to walk with him and Cindie, and the three of them continue down the hall. "--how about a little fun to take your mind off of this?"

Mary Anne chuckles at the look on his face--and the look on Cindie's. Poor thing, she isn't quite used to our shenanigans yet. "What did you have in mind, Mistral?"

He sneaks a look around and, seeing no one nearby, draws the two women into a huddle and explains his plan, at which Cindie giggles and Mary Anne bursts out laughing. "Perfect!" she exclaims, as Cindie reassures him, "No, I don't mind at all!"

Mistral breaks the huddle, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. "Will you join us for lunch, Mary Anne?"

Mary Anne raises an eyebrow. "No, you don't need a third wheel along." She winks at Cindie, who blushes crimson. "Besides, my appointment with Jutta's in half an hour and I wouldn't have time to enjoy lunch. I'll see you . . . there," she finishes with a mysterious roll of her eyes, and walks away humming, her mood vastly improved, as Mistral and Cindie continue toward the lunchroom . . .

MA
Up to mischief . . . ;-) (Don't worry, Cindie; it won't interrupt your thread.), - Monday, February 12, 2001 at 07:24:37 (PST)

As it was, she didn’t reach the set until after filming had wrapped up for the morning. Mistral and Suzanne were in deep discussion so Cindie sat in one of the canvas chairs and waited. Rupert wandered over on his way out. He cut such a dashing figure Cindie always forgot his limp until she saw him use his cane.

“So what brings you to our little palace away from home?” He gave her a little half smile but his eyes were dancing. “As if I need to ask.” He added.

“Is it that obvious?” To her credit, Cindie managed not to blush. Just.

He gave what could only be described as a snort, “Are you joking? Ever since that fancy dress ball…” He paused, seeing the look on her face, “Look, I didn’t mean to… It’s just that,” he searched for words. “He’s so guarded nobody ever thought… and you seem such a good sort, understated but friendly… Its just a bit of a surprise, a nice surprise.”

“Rupert, I never gave it a thought but I suppose these things are …discussed.”

“Don’t let it worry you. All in the good sense you know.”

“Since you are a professional advisor I suppose I’d best do as you suggest.” She gave him a slight nudge, “I just hope your Empress does too.”

He wagged a finger at her, “You know how it is, HE entrances them all.”

With that he exited the set, leaving Cindie to mutter to herself, “tell me about it.”

Mistral and Suzanne finished their tête-à-tête. Suzanne gave a wave as she took the same route Rupert had. Mistral came over to her and stood for a moment. The he placed a hand on each arm of the chair and kissed her gently on the lips. He pulled back slightly and regarded her.

“What was that for?” She asked quietly.

“For being here.”

“You can expect to see quite a lot of me then.”

“As you said, that what this is all about isn’t it?” She reached up and touched the side of his face. They remained for the briefest of moments. Then he put his hand over hers and tugged at her, “lunch time. I’m starved.” He didn’t let go of her hand as they headed to the lunchroom.”

Cindie
MA -- Thanks's for leaving him there for Cindie. ;-), - Sunday, February 11, 2001 at 12:03:55 (PST)

The Imperial Palace:

The Interrogator sits up on his bed, the words so insistent in his mind that they form soundlessly on his lips.

She took the drug herself.

Intuition. HE knows how it works, the accumulation of detail that does not even reach the conscious mind, until the observations achieve critical mass. And there, suddenly, is the answer-as if from nowhere . . .

HE lowers his head slightly, shading his eyes against the light from the ceiling bulb. After The Empress’ visit, he had been lying on his bed and had dropped off into an uneasy doze-that has been happening to him often-and dreamed in bits and pieces. Of The Empress, urging him to submit . . . though her voice had somehow shaded off into Mary Anne’s, and he had found himself again in the Manor House, lying on that bed, feeling the pain of his broken leg recede as Mary Anne had knelt there before him. Submission? Yesssssss . . .

But it had not happened as he expected. Her soft voice. Let yourself be moved.

And he had, or almost. She had affected him, is affecting him now. He understands that, at some level, but does not try to force his comprehension further. It will come to him in time, he is certain . . . just as this has come to him. His knowledge of The Empress’ tactics.

She took the drug herself. It all fits. The way I feel it most when she is near to me, and how she kept the guards at a distance in that dungeon-so they would not be affected by it. Something subliminal. Something that affects body chemistry. I know, now. I know.

HE keeps his head lowered and does not even permit himself to smile, in case someone is watching through the mirror. Is the surveillance continuous? HE doubts it. But one must take precautions.

Finally, when HE feels he has gained control of his facial expression, The Interrogator lifts his head and, after a moment, removes his glasses and holds them up to the light as if wondering whether they should be cleaned. Carefully, he flexes an earpiece, then resettles the glasses before rising from his bed and beginning his walk around the borders of the cell, reaching out at times to touch the wall-only a light pass of his fingers over the stones.

The Empress had said she would send the librarian to him. Good. HE must make his reading selections carefully. And then, there is Claudia, primed to obey his instructions at the proper time. She would make an excellent diversion.

And so HE paces around the walls, and around again, as the outlines of HIS plan take shape . . .

MA
Well, Cindie, he said he'd see you in the dungeons . . . ;-), - Saturday, February 10, 2001 at 09:18:10 (PST)

Cindie left the Director’s office and, with a detour to the lunchroom to pick up a cup of tea in a disposable cup, was back at her desk not much later than her usual starting time. Mistral was waiting for her. His face still held the ruddy cast of having just come in from what was shaping up to be a particularly cold day. He was removing his black leather gloves as Cindie entered her work area. “Good morning,” she couldn’t help but give him a broad smile. He looked so good in his black wool overcoat and cream coloured scarf. “You look like you need this more that I do.” She held out the tea.

He returned her greeting. “I could. My heater quit on me half way here this morning.” He grimaced.

“Please take it. I’ve had two cups already this morning and don’t know why I stopped for this one - habit I guess.” She walked over and flipped on her computer and turned to face Mistral again. He shrugged out of his coat and hung it up on the peg over hers. He placed his gloves in one of the pockets and took the proffered tea. Then, he sat in her guest chair, leaned back and sipped. Cindie sat down in her swivel chair, in a much better frame of mind than when she’d arrived that morning.

“You’ve been here awhile then?” He asked her between sips.

“Yes, I…” she looked at a spot just to the left of his head, “…couldn’t sleep, so I came in and got some things done.” She met his gaze and said softly, “Thank you.”

“For what, scaring the living daylights out of you?” His expression was not quite a smile.

“In a way. You went to quite a bit of …trouble.” She tried to keep her expression neutral. Although she hadn’t broached the subject with the Director, she was concerned that Mistral may have gotten the worst of that encounter. He ran his index finger around the rim of the cup, “there was no trouble, I assure you. It is just a pity that our evening was …interrupted.”

“I had similar thoughts myself.” She watched his tea cup intently.

He looked at his watch. “I have to get to the set.” He returned his attention to her and she met his gaze. “Why don’t I come back here at lunch?” He paused, “That is one meal we haven’t managed to share.” His eyes squinted in amusement and held a tenderness which warmed her more effectively than any cup of tea ever had.

“No.” His eyes widened. She reached out and placed a hand lightly on his forearm. “I’ll meet you on the set. It’s closer to the lunchroom, and maybe I’ll be able to watch a bit of filming.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Very well.” He stood up, took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Then, I will - see - you - in - the - dungeon,” he said gravely and departed, tea in hand.

Cindie looked over at her coat hook. His overcoat still hung there. She smiled and turned to log onto her computer.

Cindie
Pondering the Creative Writing Exercise....
But I like the groundhogs too...., - Friday, February 09, 2001 at 18:17:10 (PST)

Claudia: it can be either/or but note the word "interesting". We should try to be different and creative.
Magda
- Friday, February 09, 2001 at 06:23:40 (PST)

Therese--re: cold in the stables. Yeah . . . did Therese and Dev stay in there all night? Are they even aware that it snowed outside? *grin*

MA--and what on earth will Doctor McCoy say?!
(Sorry to be so slow posting these days, folks; bad case of RL . . .), - Thursday, February 08, 2001 at 20:27:02 (PST)

Oh-- interesting Magda. Does it have to be part of the story, or a stand-a-lone bit of gratuetous nooky?
Claudia
- Thursday, February 08, 2001 at 18:11:06 (PST)

Any takers?
Magda
- Thursday, February 08, 2001 at 16:06:16 (PST)

The Cubicles--FOF Set

Therese typed. Therese deleted. Therese stomped, cursed, and generally had a bad go of things. Tory curled up as unobtrusively as her bulk would allow, and looked concerned.

After several more minutes of the same, Therese pounded the escape key in defeat, and switched off her computer. "This is beyond counter productive," she muttered. "C'mon, Dogbreath, let's go for a run."

At the word 'run' the Alsatian leapt to her feet with enthusiasm. Grabbing at the ever present gym bag she always carried with her, Therese made a quick detour into the loo, and came out sporting running gear and trainers. Snapping a leash to the now prancing dog's collar, and leaving the building, she didn't even bother to stretch, but began to lope across the walkways of FOF, headed toward the footpaths beyond the Delaford set.

She was just rounding the last of the set's brick buildings, when a strong arm lunged out of a doorway, pulling her abruptly to a stop.

"Wha--!!" she squawked, startled and thrown off guard by the abrupt movement.

Tory tensed, her hackles raising slowly, a rumbling growl escaping her mouth as she sensed her owner's unease. Yet instead of continuing with her aggressive behaviour, she suddenly recognized the arm--and the body from which it stemmed, and her tail began to sweep back and forth in abandon.

"Where in the bloody hell 'ave you been!" a deep, angry Irish voice demanded.

Therese sagged against the pull on her shoulder. "Cripes, Eamon, you scared me half to death," she groused, turning to face him. "Some watch dog you are," she accused her pet, who gazed up at Dev adoringly. Well, at Dev's lunch, anyway, which, seeing a good opportunity, he quickly unwrapped and dropped to the lawn. Given the option of protecting her owner from someone she knew and trusted, or making short work of people food, Therese was on her own, which Dev lost no time in taking advantage of.

Pulling her into his chest, he grasped her firmly by either shoulder, backed her into the relative privacy of the alcove he had been leaving, and kissed her soundly.

Tory, a surprisingly dainty eater despite her size and appearance, polished off the two sandwiches, several handfulls of crisps, and worried a pickle for a good long while before deciding it wasn't going to suddenly turn into something more appealing. She sat patiently for another few moments, wondering at the odd behaviours of the humans in her charge, before moving forward to nudge her pointy muzzle into the nearest knee.

"Sod off, you mongrel!" she was told sternly and looking offended, nosed the empty lunch paper hopefully before giving up and lying contentedly upon the lawn with a deep sigh.

Long moments later Therese pushed against Eamon's shoulders, her heart pounding, and her eyes slightly glazed. "What was that?" she finally managed to voice.

"You've been avoiding me," Dev said sullenly, his voice deepening as he added softly. "And I've missed you."

Therese raised her left hand to Eamon's face, her fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw. "It wasn't intentional, you know that, and I've missed you, too."

"I've spoken with The Director, you know," Dev replied, taking Therese's hand in his own he grasped it firmly. "He said, and I quote, 'Though I am aware that my cast is fully cognizant of the fact I do not approve of, or allow, dating among the crew, I should like you to inquire after Therese. I'm concerned for her.'"

"And did he tell you that I'm on probation?" she asked morosely.

Dev nodded. "He did. Though I think he realizes that should you be asked to leave, I would have to go as well."

Therese looked horrified. "You mustn't! Eamon--you can't harm your career simply because I'm making a mess of mine. . ." She paused, her eyes narrowing. "Now just you wait a minute. That's emotional blackmail, mister."

Dev looked wounded. Too wounded. "I offer to sacrifice myself for you and this is your response?" He clasped his hand to his breast theatrically. "This is my reward for being faithful and just?"

"I'll show you faithful and just--trust me. Now go find some trainers, you're going to continue along with me on my run."

"I am?" he inquired imperiously, one brow arching as he looked toward her.

"You are," she confirmed. "And that arrogant look doesn't hold any water with me, so save it for the screen. Then I'm going to take you back to my flat, make dinner for you, and we're going to go over our lines for the upcoming scene. I think we're overdue."

"A grand understatement, at best."

"Good, then we're agreed?"

"Indeed--this is a miraculous day indeed."

"Why, because I'm getting back on track, and preparing to focus on my duties after all this time?"

Dev chuckled. "No, because you've just tried to convince me that you can cook!"

Therese
okay, the stable scene continues--it's getting cold out there after all this time, - Wednesday, February 07, 2001 at 20:54:42 (PST)

The Director arrived at the FOF environs at his usual time that morning. What was most unusual, he realized as he approached his office, was that someone was already there. This someone was not concealing their presence as light streamed out from his open door and there were distinct sounds of activity within. He proceeded and looked in. There he beheld …order. While he was a man who possessed an ordered mind, his surroundings did not always reflect that trait. Drafts from writers, finished scripts, storyboards, shooting schedules, all manner of the necessary evil of paperwork, casting information, memos from the various departments… suffice it to say things had a tendency to get out of hand. “Good morning.” His assistant greeted him as he entered the office. She continued her work.

“You’ve been busy this morning.” He stated the obvious but it was a time to …test the waters.

“I always clean or organize when I’m angry. You should see my flat. It fairly gleams. I woke up and basically came in here and started. I should’ve done it ages ago anyway - can’t have my boss working in clutter.”

“I see. And when you’ve done here?

“I just heard that Sei gives a kick boxing class. I’m going to go sign up.” She made some notes on a memo and put it in his in box.

The Director sat down heavily in his chair. He idly wondered if other directors spent an inordinate amount of their time dealing with their staff. Not that he would have it any other way he quickly decided. But couldn’t somebody be low maintenance? He considered that Claudia hadn’t gotten into any mischief, lately. And there was…, he focused on the woman in front of him. She leaned back on his credenza, the surface now quite visible, her arms folded in front of her. “I see.” He repeated himself. He leaned back in his chair, “are we going to talk about this?”

“If you’d like.” When he didn’t immediately say anything she continued, “I can understand if you were concerned that there had been a break in. But I don’t understand you ordering me out like that. It seemed - most unnecessary”.

“Did it occur to you that I might have been concerned for your well being?”

“Yesss. But, really sir!”

“I know. I’ve been accused of hovering.”

“Hovering! How about charging in like the cavalry? Which is all very nice if the cavalry happens to be necessary. Which it wasn’t.” She paused and regarded the man for whom she’d developed a world of respect in her time on the set. They spent a fair bit of the work day together but never really discussed personal matters. She decided to be as honest with him as decorum would allow. “Mistral and I had some, … issues, that we needed to work out.” She cleared her throat. “We did that last evening. At my request, I should add. You’ve known him much longer than I have, but,” she proceeded carefully as she negotiated this land mine of feelings and personalities, “I think you would agree that he posed no threat to my well being in the physical sense. And that in any other sense, you need to trust both his judgment and mine. You choose your people well sir. You need to trust them.” She finished, hoping she’d made her point without seeming too ungrateful for his concern.

He drummed his fingertips in his desktop. He seemed on the verge of speaking several times and seemed to change his mind. Finally he stated, “you were using the set for personal reasons.”

“Yes sir. I apologize. It didn’t occur to me at the time, but that was inappropriate. It won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t.” Another pause. “Everything is … as it should be?”

Cindie smiled, he was relieved to see it, “I wouldn’t go that far.” Her eyes sparkled, “but, yes, everything is fine.”

He returned the smile. “Get back to work then. Don’t you have anything at your own desk to do?”

“I should think so!” She headed for the door. “Let me know if you have trouble finding anything.” She said over her shoulder as he waived her out.

Cindie
- Tuesday, February 06, 2001 at 18:02:33 (PST)

"It needs something." Joya pushed herself up on one elbow and waved the paper in her free hand. "Don't you think? Something that shows how close they are in their married life."

"Like what?" George forcibly wrenched his gaze from her cleavage. He propped his chin on his hand and read from his own page.

"Well, I don't know yet." She frowned in concentration. "Perhaps a bedroom scene to start off with. They're in bed, resting from...some exertion...and then the message arrives. Something like that."

"Perhaps you should ask Rickman Admirer for some additional pages." He slid along the richly coloured carpet, closer to the great pillow where she sprawled. He paused within striking distance, fingers twitching, hand at the ready.

"I shall." She reached for another page, scooting back to avoid his sudden grab, smiling at his sulky frown. "And we shall call it - Love Conkers All."

Magda
- Monday, February 05, 2001 at 15:18:48 (PST)

guess not... will have to conker the world all by myself.
a Rickman admirer
- Monday, February 05, 2001 at 14:18:02 (PST)

I must confess--when I hear the "no more worlds to conquer" it reminds me of Enid Blyton and children playing "conkers", which is how Rickman pronounces the word=does anyone else know what I am talking about?
a Rickman admirer
- Sunday, February 04, 2001 at 15:26:26 (PST)

Delaford:

Mary Anne flees, with the dogs of war-well, one of them-in pursuit.

She laughs as she runs, trying to keep her cloak tucked close around her. That was how Brandon had caught her before, in Egdon; he had caught hold of her cape as it billowed behind her. Not that she has any chance of outrunning him for long, nor is she certain that she even wishes to outrun him . . .

But all of these thoughts end abruptly as Mary Anne misses her footing on the uneven ground that is covered over by the snow, and falls, rolling down a shallow slope and bumping to a stop at the base of it, where she sits up, grimacing and holding her right ankle.

Instantly, Nox and Brandon are at her side, the former to sniff and make concerned noises and, in general, to lovingly impede progress until commanded by his master to "Sit!"; the latter, to pull off Mary Anne’s warm boot and finger her ankle, checking for breaks. "Can you move your foot, my dearest? Is there much pain?"

Mary Anne checks, rotating her ankle and wincing, but then lets her breath out carefully and shakes her head. "Not so much, now. I think it’s going to be all right."

Brandon sits down beside her in the snow, chafing her foot between his hands to warm it, then carefully fitting her boot back into place and breathing a silent sigh of relief before asking, "How did it happen?"

"You can’t see how the ground looks with all this snow. I stepped off that slope and my feet went out from under me." She grins. "I want to come back in the spring, when it’s warm, and roll down there again. It’s fun if you don’t get hurt!"

That could be said of so many things, thinks Brandon as he stands up to help Mary Anne to her feet. "I was afraid you might have stumbled in a gamekeeper’s snare; the wire could have cut your foot. Can you stand?"

Mary Anne tests her weight on her right foot, then smiles. "It doesn’t even hurt, now. Just a little stiff. When we go back to the house, I’ll have Joanna look at it to make sure."

"That would be wise." If she does not have her hands full, attending to Miss Therese, that is. And Eamon . . . sweet God, help them both.

Brandon drags his thoughts away from the painful subject and turn to Mary Anne, who has leaned down to caress the fretful Nox. Brandon gestures to the dog, who stands and shakes the snow off his fur as if to say, Well, it’s about time!

Brandon, meanwhile, eyes Mary Anne. "So . . . you are certain that you are not hurt?"

"Certain," murmurs Mary Anne distractedly as she rubs Nox’s ears.

"Very well." Slowly, Brandon arches an eyebrow and grins what is for him an incredibly wicked grin as he bends to scoop up a handful of snow. "In that case . . ."

MA--naughty, naughty Christopher! ;-)
Cindie: "My wish . . . would be to keep her from all manner of harm." *siiiiigh*, - Sunday, February 04, 2001 at 10:19:40 (PST)

The Valley of the Moon:

The Director’s eyes swept the room. He walked over to the armoire and opened it. He turned on the VCR and watched the first few moments of the tape. He turned it off. He walked to the center of the room, viewed the state of the chair, and its straps. He walked back over to the picnic area and looked at Mistral.

Mistral, for his part, stood and waited for the Director to make his assessment. Although his character was accustomed to taking the lead in such situations, in this case, the Director was the alpha male.

“Go on.” The Director intoned.

“I asked Miss Cindie here. This was all my doing and I take full responsibility. She is blameless.”

“That is very good of you to shoulder the blame. However, it begs the question. WHAT in the hell were you thinking?” The Director paced, his long stride chewed up the width of the room. “After hours, alone with her, on a set which is supposed to be under lock and key, and which,” he looked pointedly at Mistral who hadn’t moved, “has certain *connotations*.” He moved so that they were nose to nose now, “Good God man, have you no shame.”

This struck its mark. Mistral betrayed the slightest of reactions, the barest flinch, which none but the most observant would have even noticed. He held his ground however, and formulated his reply. “To answer your questions, I was thinking that I and this woman who, for whatever her reasons,” he paused here and seemed to gather his resolve, “seems to like me, might get to know me a little better. I was thinking that I and this woman, who, for many reasons, I like very much, would let me know her.” He raised a hand, “I do not mean that in any but, the best sense.” He lowered his arm, “after hours, because we both worked all day, alone with her, because it is what we both wanted, and here, because,” he faltered a bit, “it was most suitable to that end.” Mistral’s face took on its impassive cast once again.

The Director leaned back on his heels and considered Mistral’s response. It was a while before he spoke. “I know that I am simply an employer. However, I feel responsible, for the well being of everyone who…”

Mistral eased his voice in, “Alan, I know you are very protective, of all of us. Please know this, she will come to no harm from me. Far from it. My wish, should she one day allow it, would be to keep her from all manner of harm.” His voice betrayed the feeling behind his words.

“You swear it.”

“If I need to.”

The Director looked him in the eye. “No, you don’t.” He looked away, giving Mistral a veil of privacy, “Does she feel the same way about you?”

“That, is a question for the lady.” His voice took on a bemused tone, “Do you plan on asking her?”

“I’m not trying to play cupid.”

“No. I think though that she will have a few things to say to you in the morning, unless I am very much mistaken.”

The Director grimaced. “Perhaps,” he said hopefully, “she will be too nervous about what I will say to her to be angry.” He surveyed the room again, “or perhaps not.” He regarded once again the man who played the quintessential villain and who had revealed something of himself tonight, “Do not expect me to wish you luck.”

“No sir.” They left the room together and Mistral wondered whether it was by accident or design that the Director did not ask for the key to the Valley of the Moon.

Cindie
Run MA run, but not too fast or he may not catch you., - Friday, February 02, 2001 at 17:19:29 (PST)

Mary Anne, I assure you that the Director got no such idea from me.
Dev
Who has learned his lesson, the hard way., - Friday, February 02, 2001 at 05:48:19 (PST)

Put you over his knee, Therese?! The Director must've been talking to Dev! *chuckle*

MA
I wouldn't put it past him, y'know . . . ;-), - Friday, February 02, 2001 at 05:06:18 (PST)

The Director's Office--FOF Set

"Uhm, staked?" Therese asked, completely at a loss.

The Director sat up, his hands falling to his lap as he looked at the woman in front of him in dismay. "Yes," he said slowly, "staked." At her obvious lack of understanding he tried again, "You have grown things, in a garden, haven't you? You're this rural farm person, don't tell me you don't know how to grow things?"

"I grow horses. I've never staked one."

"Right, rather unfortunate metaphor in that case." He arched a single, elegant brow. "How about 'reined in,' then? I'm here to rein you in, not terminate your employment--as you should well know, I might add." He rose before her, peering down at her intently before pacing the small confines of his office. "I guess what I'm trying to tell you, no, to offer you, Therese, is a shoulder. I can see that things have been difficult for you of late, and quite frankly it's affecting your work." He raised a hand to silence her, cutting off the protest before it had effectively begun. "I am not here to judge, merely to offer help. What is it? C'mon, out with it."

It was Therese's turn to shift her position, and she moved from her chair to one corner of the office, tapping the edge of a framed print which hung there, attempting to form her jumbled thoughts. "It seems to be everything, quite frankly, everything I care about, think about, or do, and though I appreciate your concern, I shall make certain that it no longer causes you to doubt my competance as an actress on your set." She paused, and turned to face him once again. "May I go now?"

The Director considered her, saw her mutinous features, and knew that she was precisely the type of person who, given enough rope, would soon be dangling. "No," he said, "you may not." He indicated the chair she had just vacated. "Sit."

"Shall I fetch, too? Roll over?" she responded--whilst taking her seat.

"Don't get cheeky," he admonished.

"Don't act paternal," she riposted.

He crossed his arms across his chest, and moved to stand over her, a frown marring his handsome features. "Quite frankly, there are times when I don't know what to do with you," he admitted. "You have a role here, and you've not been fulfilling it. There are storylines left unwritten, actors who depend upon you for their scenes, and you've just not been keeping up with your obligations. Do you wish to continue?"

Therese blanched. Despite his assurances to the contrary, she began to realize what her negligence might have cost her. "Yes," she said softly, "I do wish to continue."

"Good, because there have been times when I've wondered. If you're having a difficult go of things, I can work with you, but if your heart isn't in this business, well, then there's nothing you or I can accomplish."

"So now what?" she asked softly, her voice catching in her throat.

"Now you get out there, and you write," he ordered in his stern, directorial tone. "And you check in with me, as well--bi-weekly at first. When you've convinced me you're doing well with that, I'll have you check back weekly, then once every fortnight."

"You're putting me on probation?" Therese demanded, her tone rising.

"It could be seen as that, in the harshest light," he acquiesed, "though I prefer to think of it as helping along someone I should hate to lose."

Therese rose to her feet, her face flushed. "You can't do this!"

The Director looked startled for a moment, then a brief chuckle escaped him. "Of course I can do this, I can make any request of you I believe to be necessary."

Therese scowled. She fumed. She glared. "I'll quit," she finally threatened.

"I'll put you over my knee," he warned silkily.

"That you cannot do--this is--" words escaped her as she fumed.

"Oh?" he asked casually, taking a step in her direction.

"Would you please stop it," she practically squawked, quickly backing away from him. "I'm trying to be serious here."

"If you want serious, I'll give you serious," he allowed, waving her back into her chair as he regained his own seat. "You are a rising young talant on your first show. There is a great deal of stress in this craft in general, and in series work in particular. Apparently outside issues have come into play as well, and though those issues are none of my business personally, when they begin to make a difference in your work, they are of concern to me. I do not want to alter your employment status, but if things progress as they have to this point, I may have no other options, so I have brought you here to bully, cajole, support, lend you a shoulder to cry on, or any and all of the above, should that help keep you on my show. There. Serious enough for you?"

Therese's mouth gaped, but no sounds were forthcoming. She felt the distinct prickle of tears at the back of her eyes, and blinked rapidly to deter any outward signs. She clenched her fists in frustration at the unwanted display of emotion.

"You probably should cry, it might do you some good," he offered with his typical perception.

The moment the words had left his mouth, The Director knew he had erred. He had harboured hopes of spending some time with her that evening, taking her to dinner, and perhaps loosening her tongue with a bottle of wine in order to get to the bottom of some of what was obviously troubling her. Now he could see that she only wanted to get as far from him as was humanly possible. It was as if her emotions had drained from her completely, to be replaced by a faceless, reactionless mask. "Well, it was only a thought," he replied, motioning her toward the door. "I expect some further developments on the stable storyline by week's end."

Therese rose from her chair slowly, and was half way to the threshhold when she turned to consider him. He thought she would speak then, but instead she turned back around, and strode purposefully through the door.

Therese
RA--That Director of ours--he's known to run a pretty tight ship, but never doubt that he always has the best interest of his cast members in mind. Think of him as a cross between a god-like father figure and a Jewish mother., - Thursday, February 01, 2001 at 21:32:06 (PST)

A meadow near Delaford, where Brandon is attempting his first snow angel:

The minute Brandon lies down, Nox starts toward him; no properly-constituted dog can see one of his humans lying on the ground without wishing to hurry over and sniff and investigate. However, Mary Anne quietly commands, "Down, Nox," and Nox obeys, settling near her feet, taking care to stay within the folds of her cloak and casting eager glances over at Brandon, then back up at Mary Anne, accompanied by many squirms and much thumping of his tail in the snow.

Mary Anne crouches near Nox to make certain he will stay put, smiling as Brandon sweeps his arms and legs through the snow and then calls to her, "Am I doing it well, my dearest?"

"Very well, indeed," chuckles Mary Anne, working busily within the concealment of her cloak, as Brandon finishes and sits up . . .

SWOOOOOOOSH!

Mary Anne hurls the snowball with all her strength, but Brandon-who has taken warning from the conversation of the previous night-instantly rolls aside, dodging the assault. "Ha!" he exclaims triumphantly, but Mary Anne, nothing daunted, leaps to her feet with a cry of "Free!"

Nox, hearing the signal that releases him from his commands, utters a joyful little bark and flings himself headlong at his master, who is not in time to fend off this unexpected and playful attack.

Mary Anne, meanwhile, is packing together more snowballs and tossing them as quickly as her hands will work, and by the time Brandon is able to sit up and command, "Nox! Down!" there are several wet splatsches of white on the Colonel’s greatcoat, eloquent testimony to the success of Mary Anne’s tactics.

"Mary Anne, I warned you!" Brandon, though half-choked with laughter, has managed to gain his feet and brush some of the snow off of his coat, as Mary Anne readies herself to . . . withdraw to a discreet distance. As though that will help. "Prepare for the consequences, my love!"

"Consequences, shmonsequences," laughs Mary Anne. (Homage) "And you a military man, to be taken in like that-"

"Oh, so you call upon my military experience, do you?" Brandon strikes a menacing pose, feet apart, arms crossed over his chest. "In that case-" He lifts one hand, and his voice, amplified by the unnatural stillness, rings and thunders across the snowy fields. "--Cry, HAVOC! And let slip-THE DOGS OF WAR!"

Brandon’s hand slashes down. Apparently this is a signal to Nox, who springs jubilantly to his feet as he and Brandon both set off in pursuit of Mary Anne . . . who turns and runs, as the thump of booted feet behind her, accompanied by frenzied barking, draws nearer and nearer . . .

MA--*sigh* Will MA never learn?
BTW, that's purely a rhetorical question . . . ;-), - Thursday, February 01, 2001 at 19:23:17 (PST)

Staked! What kind of a place is this?
Count D.
Covering my heart., - Thursday, February 01, 2001 at 16:33:23 (PST)

RA - its because he doesn't encourage relationships between his staff - even though he is fully aware they go on. AND they weren't on their own time - as they were on a set, still at work, even if it was after hours.

The Director is also very protective. Listen to me - justifying the actions of a fictional character again. Oh - is that a rude word here - fictional? ;^D

Enjoy everyone! I hope I'll be back to play soon.
Claudia
- Thursday, February 01, 2001 at 11:19:42 (PST)

Excuse me, but I think the director is out of line--they are two consenting adults, and he doesn't rule their free time. I would have said, "excuse me, but why do you think this is any of your business?"
a Rickman admirer
- Thursday, February 01, 2001 at 01:03:26 (PST)

Back to top