...you just might get it

I'm sorry, folks. I just realized that not all of this story uploaded. Abject apologies all around.

Title:...you just might get it. Part II
Author: Scribe
Summary: Scribe finally loses the run.
Rating: fan rated adult only
Pairings: Implied
Characters: From Hercules, the Legendery Journies, Star Wars series, 7days, Invisible Man, Dr. Ruth, The Sentinel, X Files, BtVS, AtS, Highlander, the Series
Betas:
Author's Notes:
Disclaimer: I did not create, and do not own the rights to, the recognizable media characters that appear in this story. I have no legal or binding agreement with the creators, or owners. I do not seek, and would not accept, profit from this fiction. I have nothing but affection and respect for the creators, and the actors and actresses who portrayed these characters. This story is in no way meant to reflect on the actual lives or life styles of the actors and actresses who portrayed the characters.

Part Two

the big, sad puppydog eyes.

Ares' expression smoothed a little. "Well, you should have said so in the first place. That IS a pretty decent reason."

"And it worked, too." he said proudly. "Scribe, I'm sorry about the deceit, but you gotta understand..." He turned to look at her. The other side of the log was bare. "Scribe? She was here a second ago."

Ares cocked his head, and heard a faint rustling in the distance, as of someone hightailing it through underbrush. "Damn! Missed her again! And I'm down one necklace. Joxer..." He lifted the smaller man up till their faces were level. "We're going to have to have a long, long...long....talk."

Joxer winced, and sighed. "Ya know, I'm feeling a certain amount of kinship with Scribe right now."

At that moment, Scribe was mentally stringing together as many obscene and vulgar words as she could remember, as she tried (wioderoderate success) to avoid brambles as she escaped. She couldn't manage to get past eight without ruining the grammar of the sentance, and finally gave up in favor of the familiar mantra of *Ohshitohshitohshitohshit.*

It started to rain. *MotherFUCKING shit.* she corrected herself. *Me and my stupid remark about ports and storms.*

A great, grey shape loomed up ahead in the rain. It turned out to be a granite outcropping where a solid mass of stone, the size of a small hill, had burst up through the soil. The good thing was that there was a shallow overhang, high enough to stand under. Scribe darted under it, getting out of the rain. The grass under here was only slightly damp, and she sat down to wait out the storm.

Hah. Like she'd have that much peace.

Two men darted in out of the curtain of rain. The one with long, blonde curly hair looked at the bigger ond snd said, "See? I deserve my title of the Golden Hunter. I told you I had the trail."

"When you're right, you're right, Iolaus." Hercules agreed.

Scribe held her head, moaning, "Aren't there people you guys should be rescuing? Isn't that your job?"

"Sure." Iolaus explained, "We're here to save you from a life of celibacy."

Hercules nodded vigorously. "That would be a sin, and since we're dedicated to fighting evil..."

"That's some of the most convoluted, self serving logic I've ever heard of." Scribe complained.

Iolaus shrugged. "What do you expect from him? He's a half god."

Hercules sidled toward her. "Say, does P.O.G. stand for Pump on Grass?"

"Certainly not."

"Okay. Give me a second and I'll spread out the bedrolls."

While he was doing that, Iolaus started to edge closer. "You're a fan fiction author, right?"

"Ye-es."

"What would you say were my two major characteics ics in fan fiction?"

"Uh...well, let's see. You eat like there's no tomorrow, and you're terminally horny."

"Correct!" He licked his lips and gave her a lascivious smile. "Want to guess how we can combine those two elements?"

"One thing to be said for water: It makes you slippery." She demonstrated by squirting out of his grip when she shot past him, disappearing into the rain once again.

*This really isn't fair. It's hard enough getting away from these lechers one at a time. Now my universe has to start throwing pairs and more at me. My imagination isn't satisfied with just trying to debauch me, it wants me in a freakin' orgy! Cripes, I'm changing my password when I get home. If Mom ever accidentally hacks in and reads some of this stuff...*


Part 9


Scribe skidded to a halt, up to her ankles in damp leaves, and snarled, "I've had about all this natural crap I can stand! My idea of roughing it is cable instef saf satalite. I want concrete and walls! NOW!" she bellowed.

Everything sort of...rippled. She couldn't be positive, but she imagined she could almost hear a cosmic voice mutter, "WELL, IF YOU'RE GOING TO BE SUCH A BITCH ABOUT IT..."
Once the fun house mirror effect was over, she looked around. Alright, first, it wasn't raining any more. One good point, anyway. She stamped her feet. *Hm, looks more like marble than concrete, but I suppose beggars can't be choosers.* She wrung a stream of water out of her shirtfront, and slapped her own wrist in punishment, remembering the last time she had used a cliche.

*Lemme see...walls, check. Okay, where am I?* She started walking. *Damn, big room. Big room, marble floors... shit! I hope the freakin' Powers that Be didn't drop me down in somebody's temple! Especially not Ares.* (shudder, shudder)(sneeze)(sniff) *Crap. I can blame one of the shudders on the heebie-jeebies, but the other one and the achoo-snort is from the damn dousing. It's chilly in here...Better not think that. Someone will read my mind and show up, offering to keep me warm.*

"Speaking of which..." She whirled around, to find a tall, bearded man in robes standing right behind her.

"How the fuck did you do that?!" she yelped. "The nearest door is about fifty feet away, and in plain sight, and don't tell me you transported, 'cause there wasn't any damn glitter."

He shrugged, "The ways of the universe are mysterious, Daughter."

She stamped her feet again. "No incest! Not even pseudo, got me?!"

"Oh, look, it's a metaphorical phrase implying..."

"Can it, Qui-Gon. Don't say that unless your intentions toward me are REALLY paternal, in the strictest possible sense."

"Well...uh..."

"Thought so. And I swear, if you offer to show me 'The Force', I'll land you one right where I did for Chekov."

Somebody's arms went around her from behind, and a voice in her ear crooned, "How about if I show you my real lightsaber?" She glanced back, getting a glimpse of an impish face.

She groaned, "That deserves at least one of these." She stamped on his foot. It might have been more effective if she hadn't been barefoot. She shook her bruised feeling foot, swearing creatively. Qui-Gon, looking shocked, covered his padawan's ears. Obi-Wan rolled his eyes.

After a minute, she wound down. "All right. What are you going to do with me, she asked with naivity bordering on stupidity."

Obi-Wan gave her bosom a squeeze. "Well, duh."

"Just a moment, Son..." Qui-Gon said.

Obi-Wan whispered in her ear. "You're right, ya know. He is kinky. But fun. Trust me." She groaned.

"Scribe, we want to offer you a unique opportunity."

"Such as?"

"The Force is obviously with you. You created all this..." his hands swept around. "Plus you've managed to escape dozens of rabidly horny men and women with your cherry still intact."

"Yeah, I'm kinda proud of that." She looked back over her shoulder at Obi-Wan. "Some of those pervs were very determined." He nodded. She looked closer. *Ooo, a braid!* (tingle) *Yow!* (pant) He smiled at her. *Uh oh.* She mentally shook herself.

Qui-Gon, missing the byplay, continued. "You show great potential. I'm willing to take you on as a padawan, and train you with Obi-Wan."

"I thought this was a one-to-one master/apprentice thingy."

This time she felt a warm, damp tongue swipe her ear. "He can 'train' two. Trust me again. And he can rest and recharge while we practice."

"Tell ya what, why don't you take that light saber and shove it." She was glaring back over her shoulder at him, and caught the slow smile. "Oh no! You didn"

"

"Not many people know that those things have different power settings."

"Okay, NOW I'm squicked."

Qui-Gon said, "Come on, padawans. We don't want to start the training out here in public. We'll attract crowds."

Obi-Wan said, "Yeah. We need some privacy so I can explore your dark side." He humped against her butt.

"Damn, and to think I dumped a perfectly good mountie for th At At least he says please." (sneeze)(sniff) "Damn!"

Qui-Gon said, "Maybe we should run you by the healers first."

"Ah," said Obi-Wan, still hunching, "Can't we just fix her some of that herbal tea crud back at the quarters?"

"You asked for it." Scribe leaned down and wiped her runny nose on his sleeve.

"Eeww!" He let go with that arm to shake his sleeve.

Which gave her just enough slack to wriggle free and make a dash for the door. As she ran, hearing pursuing footsteps, she hollered, "Whoever or whatever is in charge of transport in this looney bin, I wanna end up in a normal, modern city when I get through that door. Got that? Or I swear, nothing but GEN from now on!" she threatened.

Everything rippled again as she plunged through the door, and the sound of footsteps faded behind her...

Part 10

*Note to self: Try to come up with some really, really nasty owies for The Powers That Be.* Scribe thought this as she picked herself up from the pile of flattened cardboard boxes she'd landed on after running almost full tilt into a brick wall. *Damn, that felt like Fraiser. Shit. Well, I suppose it could always be worse...*

There was a massive BOOM overhead, and she was once again drenched by a chilly downpour. She sighed heavily. "Crap."

It was raining so hard she had to look carefully to make out the direction of the entrance to the alley. She hesitantly began to pick her way toward it, grumbling under her breath. "Why the hell are alleys in fan fiction always so nasty? Maybe I can start a trend where the sanitation workers actually pick up the trash, and someone sweeps up the broken glass once a millineum. I don't even want to THINK about what this stuff is."

She started to skid on the greasy pavement, and barely caught herself. Almost to the exit, she paused. Over the rush of the rain, she could hear footsteps approaching. Better to find out who it was instead of just waltzing out in front of them. She flattened against the wall.

A man and a woman, tucked under umbrellas, passed on the sidewalk. The woman was shaking her head and muttering in what sounded like Russian. The man was saying, "No, hear me out, Olga. I take the sphere back, and I can get to her before Xander Harris even thinks about making the snatch! It's perfect!"

"Except for the fact that the sphere won't seat two, you greedy bastard."

She waited till the sound had faded, then tiptoed out onto the sidewalk and looked around. Alright, it was a city, well enough. Now what?

While she was contemplating possibilities, she noticed that the hem of her shirt was slowly creeping upward. "What the...?" She pulled it back down, frowning. Now that was weird. She'd had underwear ride up before, of course, but never fast enough for her to actually observe it.

Someone goosed her. That's what it felt like, anyway. When she jumped and turned around, the street behind her was empty. *What the fuck?! That felt like an icicle! Is someone out there writing 'Ghost' fiction? Harry Potter couldn't have schlepped that invisibility cloak all the way over from Hogw, co, could he?*

Something that felt refrigerated closed over her right breast, and she swung at nothing instictively. And connected with a satisfying crack.
There was a brief impressions of liquid droplets, denser and shinier than the rain, flying. Looked kind of like the mercury you got when you broke a thermometer. She saw, floating in mid air, what looked like a portion of a man's cheek. This was a brief glimpse, and nothingness seemed tow aow across it, leaving only clear air again. Her hand was numbingly cold. An indignant male voice said, "Ow!"

She squinted. Now that she looked, she could see a faint man shape outlined against the pouring rain. "Darien Fawkes, you sneaky son of a bitch!"

"Hi, Scribe. Does P.O.G. stand for Poke Or Grab?" He demostrated with another goose and a grope. It was hard to dodge when you couldn't see where the hands were coming from.

She yelped, "Hell no!"

"Oh, well. Hang on a sec, and we'll get you out of the rain."

A van had pulled to the curb nearby, and the side door slid open. A stocky man with thinning hair peered out into the deluge. Something grabbed her arm and started to drag her toward the van, while the voice called eagerly, "Yo, Hobbes! Got her!"

It felt like her arm was being rubbed with ice cubes. "Are you kidding?! No way! Most people only have to deal with cold feet."

"Quit bitching. I'll ditch the quicksilver before the main event."

"Yeah, well, I don't intend to let this get past the preliminaries." She tried to remember how tall Darien was on the show, considered the height his voice was coming from, calculated distance from head to crotch level, and made a grab. She latched onto something, and squeezed hard.

Judging from the yell and the sudden disappearance of the grip on her arm, she'd been correct. As she dashed off, she heard his pained groans, and Bobby Hobbes crooning, "Aww, baby. Let me kiss it and make it better..."

*Slash. Gotta love it.* (wha-choo) (snort). *Crap, I gotta get dry, or I'm gonna end up in an emergency room getting molested by Doug Ross. No, wait, he's pediatrics, isn't he? Probably Carter. That is unless I just collapse on the street and Johnny and Roy come from Rampart...I gotta get in out of the rain.*
She was passing a brownstone, and a little old lady, complete with pink umbella, was just starting down the stairs. She twittered, "Oh, my dear! You're half drowned, and you look like someone has been chasing you around the block."

She sighed. "Madam, you have no idea how accurate that statement is."

"Is someone after you?"

"Basically, everyone. Men are dogs."

She tsk, tsked. "Are some nasty men chasing you, dear?"

"Squadrons, it seems. I'm not even sure I'd be safe in the 7th Heaven fandom.""Well, you need to get in out of the rain, and you need someone to look after you who isn't a threat."

"Do such people exist here?" she said hopefully.

"Of course they do! I have neighbors...the sweetest boys. They never bring women home with them, and I don't think they even date. Very dedicated to their careers. I'd take you into my place and let you rest, but I'm just on my way out. I'm sure they'd be happy to let you stay for awhile, though. They could even help you get rid of those men who are bothering you. One of them's a policeman."

*There is a faint aroma of decay drifting down from Denmark...* (SNEEZE!) *What was I just thinking? That last 'choo jarred my train of thought right off the track. Well, I probably should be suspcious, but...Fuck it. I'm growning webs between my toes.* "Sounds peachy."

The old lady unlocked the front door for hholdholding it open. "That door down there, dear. Tell them hello for me." She left as Scribe squelched down to the indicated door, and knocked.

As she waited for an answer, the mental gears started turning. *Let's see...Two sweet guys, no dates, one of them a cop...* Her eyes widens ths the door opened.

*Shit.*

"Fancy meeting you here." Blair grabbed her shirt and hauled her in.


Part Eleven

Blair locked the door. "I gotta say, I didn't expect you to show up on our doorstep."

"I was decoyed in here by a little old neighbor lady."

"I gotta get her a potted plant or something. You're a damn sight nicer than the cookies she usually sends over. Hey, you're dripping all over the rug. Jim'll be pissed. You know what a freakin' nek hek he is."

"I tremble in dread." (WHA-CHOO!) (snuffle) "Actually, right now, I just tremble."

Blair's face was sympathetic. "Aww, poor baby! You oughta get out of those wet clothes right away."

"Oh, sure, I'll just strip right down." There was a pause. "Quit looking at me expectantly. You know damn good and well I was being sarcastic."

He shrugged. "A guy can hope. Here." He took a towel from a pile of neatly folded laundry that was sitting on the couch. "We can at least get you dried off a little."

Before she could react, he tossed the towel over her head and began to tousel vigorously. *Well, alright. It's just the hair, after all. It's not like he's Clive, the Leather Hairdresser and is gonna get all steamed up just ruffling my curls.*

The towel moved down a little. *That's okay. Neck and shoulders are neutral territory. Okay, throat's a little bit iffy. Maybe I ought to get that towel and...* (grope)

"Hey!" She jumped back, glaring at him.

He grinned innocently. "Towel slipped."

"Yeah, right." She gave him the finger. "Slip this."

He cocked his head. "You're not as polite as you were when Xander brought you over."


"Well, big whoopty surprise. I'm tired, I'm hungry, I'm cold, my nerves are shot, and..." (choo choo choo) "Cripes! I sound like a fuckin' freight train!" (sniiiiiiiif)

"I can dig it. Alright, you haven't really had the hurt yet, but I don't see any reason why you can't have the comfort." He handed her a comforter off the sofa. "Here, wrap up in this and come in the kitchen."

She eyed him warily. "I'm not so sure about that. I happen to remember what happened in there on Thanksgiving."

Blair smiled nostalgically. "Ya know, somehow we managed to get cranberry sauce on the ceiling, I'm not sure how. Say, P.O.G. wouldn't happen to stand for Potatos O' Gratin, would it?"

"No. And it's spelled 'Au' gratin."

He shrugged. "I studied anthropology, not English. Anyway, I'm just gonna make you tea this time. Guide's honor."

"Well..."

"I've still got some of the last batch of cookies the old lady sent over."

"What kind?"

"Tollhouse."

"Lead the way."

In a few minutes she was sitting at the kitchen table, wrapped in the comforter, with a chocolate chip cookie in each hand and the remains of a third being rapidly reduced to crumbs in her mouth. Blair was tending a kettle on the stove. She managed to swallow before the next sneeze, so that she avoided spraying crumbs. Well, not many crumbs, anyway. (kerchew) (sniffle) "Sorry."

"Don't worry about it. Some of this herbal tea will do wonders for you." He brewed the pot while she worked her way through more cookies. He poured a mug and set it before her.

She sniffed it suspiciously, then made a face. "Even as clogged as I am, I can smell the funk. It smells like a Louisianna bog on a hot day."

"It's good for you."

"Yeah, that's what they usually say about crappy tasting stuff."

"Oh, alright, Miss Finicky." He went to the cabinet and returned with a pale gold plastic squeeze bottle.

She jerked back in her chair. "Sandburg, get the hell away from me with that honey!"

"You've got a suspicious mind. It's for the tea."

"Oh. Okay."

"Unless you'd like..."

"NO."

(sigh) "Alright." He squirted a huge dollop into the mug and stirred. "Try that." She sipped. "How does it taste?"

She made a face. "Like sweetened Louisianna bog water." But she gulped it down. Almost immediately she felt less congested. "Hey. I think that stuff is working."

"Told ya." He sat beside her, swinging his legs.

"I'm enjoying this respite, Sandburg, but I gotta ask. You're one of only three guys who haven't pretty much tried to jump me on sight. Fraiser bse, se, well, he's Fraiser. Joxer has such a track record he knew his odds were roughly those of a spherical pctilctile composed of water in it's frozen crystiline form when deposited in the firey reaches of the netherworld..."

"Snowball in hell?"

"Yuh. And you. What gives?"

"I'm waiting for Jim. He'd be ticked if I started without him."

"Oh."

"A ticked off Jim Ellison is NOT to be messed with."

"But I thought you guys were gay?"

He shook his head. "Common misconception by those unfamiliar with slash." He shook a finger at her. "You should know better. According to fanon, we're only gay for each other. Well, except in your 'Verliebt' series, where I get it on with Freidrik. Thank you, by the way. But that hardly counts, since I was turning into a werewolf at the time."

"So you mean to tell me that you intend to..."

"Have Scribe filling in an Ellison and Sandburg sandwich. Yep, that's about it."

"Well, this has been the nicest tea party since the Mad Hatter stuffed the Doremouse in the teapot, but...Come to think of it, that tea did taste like there might have been a mouse doing the backstroke in it at some time or other. Be that as it may, I really must be going."

As she started to rise, Blair quickly sat on her lap, throwing his arms around her neck. "No ya don't. I got you, fair and square, and I want some severe cuddling before Jim gets back and trys to fuck both of use through the mattress."

She took a deep breath. "Tell me about the anthropological theories concerning the erotic obsession with the creator in primitive societies..." (pout) "...baby."

Blair's eyes glazed slightly. "We find this theme running through the mythologies of almost every recognized society known to man, from the implied with cave dwellers, to the explicit of the better documented Mayan and American Indian cultures. Beginning with the birth of the world..."

When Jim arrived five minutes later, he was still droning on, and Scribe was still struggling to unhook his arms. He surveyed them, hands on lean hips. "You asked him about anthropology, didn't?"
?"

"I didn't realize he'd go into lock down. Can you get him off me? He's pretty solid for a short dude."

"Don't I know it? Solid, that's my Hairboy." He leaned over and slapped Blair lightly,ing ing loudly, "Blair. Blair! Come out of it. You're squashing the nookie."

Blair blinked. "Oh, wow, man. What happened?"

"You zoned."

"Pulled an Ellison, huh? The last thing I remember is she asked me about anthropological..." His eyes started to unfocus again.

"BLAIR!"

He shook himself. "Thanks, Big Guy." He stood up.

Before Scribe could scarper, Jim scooped her up into his arms, trapping her neatly in the comforter. She struggled in the wrapping, then growled at Blair, "You planned this, you sneak!"

"And very effective it is, too."

"C'mon, Sandburg. I need you to spot me while I get her up to the loft." He carried the squirming bundle out of the kitchen toward the stairs.

"Put me down!" she demanded.

"Okay," he said agreeably. "On the bed."

"This is so not fair! Don't I get ANY choice in the matter?"

"Sure. Which one of us do you want on top? Blair, where are you?"

His voice floated back from a anceance. "Just getting the whipped cream."

Scribe groaned. "The man is obsessed!"

"Yeah. Ain't he cute? Blair, sweetie, did you remember the lube?"

"As if I'd run out. Fresh tube on the night stand."

"I'm getting rather alarmed here." Scribe squeaked.

"Okay, if you're worried about getting squashed, we can do it spoon fashion."

"You're so thoughtful."

There was a pounding on the door. Jim halted at the foot of the stairs up to the loft. Blair came out of the kitchen, carrying a spray can. "Who the hell could it be now?"

"The bad timing police. Ignore them, they'll go away." Ellison said.

(POUND POUND POUND)

"I don't think so," Blair opined.

Scribe yelled, "HELP! Molestation in progress!"

A voice from the other side of the door yelled, "PUT DOWN THE VIRGIN AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!"

Blair and Jim exchanged glances. Blair raised his voice and said questioningly. "Foxy?"

"Lemme in. I ditched Scully, and I know damn good and well that bed will hold four just as easily as three."

Scribe rolled her eyes pleadingly toward heaven. "Cripes."

Part Twelve


(POUND POUND POUND) "C'mon, hurry up before Krycek finds me again. I already got punished oncr ler letting her escape at the Sunnydale police station, and my ass can't handle any more."

Jim shrugged. "Oh, hell, Blair. him him in. He's fun."

As Blair unlocked the door, Scribe howled. "This is impossible!"

"Not really," said Fox, as Blair locked the door after him. "Yeah, the logistics are complicated, and it's gonna take concentration and rhythm, but..."

"Jim, what's the stress limit on the bed?" Blair followed Fox over to the stairs. "Fox, how much do you weight?"

"Oh, about one..."

"I need to go to the ladies room." Scribe said quietly.

They all looked at her. Blair said, "Can't you wait?"

"With the activities ya'll have planned, do you honestly think my bladder will hold out? Besides, maybe you've forgotten, but that tea you fed me seems to be having a diuretic effect."

Fox and Jim glared at Blair. He shrugged. "So sue me. The way she was sneezing it would have been a chore staying on top of her."

Jim carried her to the bathroom, unwrapped her, and pushed her inside. "Hurry up. Feel free to lock the door if you like. Just remember, you have three guys trained in breaking down doors out here, and I, personally, get very hot when I kick the shit out of something."

"Hot? Hell, I'm surprised your damn smoke detector isn't tripped already." She shut the door, and began pacing as well as the limited space would allow. *Criminitly. I'm stuck worse than a fat man in a subway turnstile. I gotta get out of here, if I don't want to go from Britany Spears to Madonna in one night. One of them? Maybe. Two? Eh, it could happen. But three? OUCH! Makes me tired just thinking about it.*

(rap rap rap) "Scribe? I have my hearing turned up, and I can hear the wheels spinning in your mind. Do your business and get out here."

(ziiiiip) Fox sounded startled. "Blair, what the fuck are you doing with that Redi-Whip?" (sssssss) "Damn! That's cold! You crazy...Ooooo..."

"Blair! Quit that! Fox, just push him away. Fox?" (rap rap rap) "C'mon, they've started without you."

*Shit! Think, Scribe, think. Ditch the fucking logic and find a way out of here. Lesse...Drain? Nah. Toilet? Why did I even think that? Medicine cabinet? Nope. I'd probably fall off the counter and break a leg. Hmmm...Undersink cabinet? Maybe...* Scribe began to concentrate very hard on The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.

She opened the cabinet and began to empty out the contents. *Towels, washcloths, spare soap, shampoo, hair conditioner, hair conditioner, hair conditioner, hair conditioner, case of lube, case of condoms, fleet enemas...A rubber duckie?! The things you can learn about people in their bathroom.*

Finally emptying the cabinet, she squeezed inside, and pulled the door shut after herself. The darkness was complete.

(rap rap rap) "Last chance, Scribe. Open up, or I'm gonna plow you on the bathroom floor, and Blair tells me that the tiles are pretty damn cold."

"Fuckin' arctic, man," Blair agreed.

*Damn, this better work.* She reached toward the back wall of the cabinet...

And it wasn't there. *YES!* She started crawling rapidly. Behind her she heard a muffled crasolloollowed shortly by three part harmony swearing. *I'd give 'em a 'neh neh neh neh NEH neh', but that would take too long. Hopefully that booger will seal after me, like the cave.*

The narrow passage wound along, and eventually she emerged into an open space. She stood up, and turned to check the passage behind her. Sure enough, it had vanished. Then she turned her attention to her surroundings.

*Anotheremenement. Figures. And a big booger, too. Heavy on the dust and cobwebs. Either this place is deserted, or the owner is NOT Martha Stewert. Thank God no one writes fanfic about her. BRRRRR!*

Scribe leaned back against the walr a r a moment, picking a dust bunnie the size of a jack rabbit off her foot. Something clinked. She stared. *Well, I don't have any personal experience, but I'd say those look an awful lot like a set of manacles and chains. Perhaps I'd best leave before I get personal experience.*

She found the stairs and tiptoed up cautiously. Upstairs she found herself in a rather familiar looking kitchen. *Hm, deja vu.* She went into the living room. *Deja vu, two. Or is that too?* (AHCHOO) *Oh, crap. I thought that swill Sandburg gave me knocked out the sniffles. Wait a minute, this was because of all the dust...Eyuk. It looks like a vacuum cleaner bag dumping ground in here. Oh, wait a minute...* There was a large wooden stake laying in one of the piles. *Okay, that explains it. So, I'd better...*

"It's impolite to just break into someone's house, but I'm willing to forgive you."

"BUGGER!" She jumped in shock as the cold hand touched her arm.

"I don't care what Xander Harris says. I'm bi, not gay." Angel didn't grab. But he didn't let go, either.

"You know, that isn't at all comforting. Let go, Angelus. I'm stuffed with chocolate chip cookies. My blood sugar is probably high enough to rot your fangs right now."

"You have me all wrong. I'm Angel, not Angelus. I've been to hell and gotten my soul back."

"Well, that was quick."

"Fans get antsy if there isn't action on a regular basis. You look tired. Come sit down." He dragged her over to the sofa and sat, pulling her down beside him. When she tried to get up, eld eld on tighter. "Relax. I'm not the mean, evil, lust and blood crazed Angelus, remember? I'm the sweet, haunted by guilt, angsty, tragic hero Angel." He pulled her head down on his shoulder.

"Angel? You oughta let me go. Buffy could walk in, and I'd really rather not have a Slayer trying to kick my butt."

"Shh, don't worry about Miss Valley Girl on PCP. I won't let her hurt you. Anyway, she'd be more inclined to jump you than thump you." He lowered her head to his broad chest.

Scribe's ear was pressed against his shirtfront. *Oo, quiet in there.* "Angel? What exactly are you doing?"

"You seem distressed. I'm comforting you."

She tensed. "HEY! I happen to know that the fanfic definition of 'comfort' is a hell of a lot different from Webster's!"

"True." He had her down around his belt.

"I thought you said you had your soul."

"I do. And I'm going to feel really, really bad about tafteafter I'm done. I'll probably agonize over it for at least twenty minutes before I can do it again." He pushed her head into his lap.

"Angel, I want you to think very carefully about what I'm about to say. You aren't the only one who can bite."

The vampire froze. If he hadn't already been undead, his blood would have run cold. "You wouldn't..."

"Click click, Angel. I'm a tired, mega pissed off woman. To quote Clint Eastwood, do you feel lucky?"

He sighed and stood up, pulling her to her feet. "Well, I wasn't going to play with Angelus' toys, but if you're going to be that way..."

There was a knock at the door. "Damn fan fiction timing," he grumbled. "I'm going to ignore that."

"COME IN!" Scribe yelled.

Angel glared at her as the front door creaked open. A dapper young man in a neat business suit, carrying a briefcase, entered. "Ah, I see I'm in time to keep you from damaging our property."

"What?!" Angel growled.

"Yeah, what?" Scribe echoed, curiously.

low low me to introduce myself. I am Lindsey McDonald..."

"I know who you are, Lindsey."

Scribe looked at Angel curiously. "Really? You shouldn't. He's from the spin off, and you're the Buffy version, aren't you?"

Angel sighed. "Look, it's a little late to start throwing something unecessary like logic into the mix, isn't it?"

"Whatever. In any case, he's a corporate lawyer. That's scary."

"Shut your mouth till I figure out a safe way tt yot you to..."

"Excuse me, Angel. But you'll have to release our asset."

"Yeah, release my ass." Scribe squirmed.

"Ass-et," corrected Ley. ey. "But we own that, too." He opened the briefcase. "I have documentation here proving that one Scribe, who will be hereafter refered to as party of the first part, is the legal property of the firm of Wolfram and Hart, LA, and is to be placed in the custody of Lindsey McDonald (myself), who will be referred to as party of the second part. Said party of the first part is to accompany party of the second part back to LA, where she will be the main attraction at the office party." He offered a sheet of paper to Angel. "So give. I've already requisitioned her for my quarterly bonus."

"You might should listen to him," Scribe advised. "Corporate lawyers are bigger bloodsuckers than vamps ever thought about being."

"Nah. I'll just kick his butt."

Lindsey shot his cuffs and said cooly, "How many years haven't you filed a tax return?"

Angel paled, and said, "Not...not..."

Scribe said with dreaded awe, "Dear lord, the only bloodsuckers more vicious than a corporate lawyer. The IRS. Even in the deepest, darkest, most depraved hurt before comfort, no fan fic writer has ever resorted to that. You are ruthless."

In any case, the threat had loosened Angel's most likely numbed grip, and Scribe wriggled free. Lindsey was pulling a pair of handcuffs out of his briefcase. "And just so this document will be binding..."

Scribe backed toward the kitchen. "Does everyone in this universe carry bondage gear? And don't bother with the IRS threat on ME, Lindsey. I don't make a dime off these little lunacies. I say so in the beginning disclaimers."

"Be reasonable. The firm can offer you a very attractive benefits package. Guaranteed clean sheets on a regular basis, designer condoms, mink lined shack..".."

She scooped up a handful of dust and heaved it at him. There was an explosion of sneezes. As she ran out the back door she heard Angel complain, "Hey, I was hoping to try to reconstitute a few of those!"

Notes: To all of you who's favorite character does not get lucky, sorry about that. The tag line was just too perfect to pass up.

Part Thirteen


Scribe ran through the darkness, trying to put as much space between herself and the mansis pos possible. *You can't tell me someone out there isn't writing Monty Python fan fic. This is just too damn close. I keep expecting to run into spam and a dead parrot. I'd laugh my butt off if I was reading this...*

She skidded to a halt, glaring up at the sky. "Alright," she snarled. "Stop laughing! This is serious business, you know! How'd you like to have your ass chased all over creation by a bunch of hot, sex crazed maniacs bent on ravishing you in every possible way, and..." She trailed off, blinking. "Oh, wait a minute. That's exactly what you would want, isn't it? And I bet you would've run a lot slower. Sluts."

She started to stalk off, muttering to herself. She paused, casting a glance skyward and said accusingly, "You know, you could be offering possible escape plans. Some of you must write." No answer. (stomp) (mutter mutter) "Damn lurkers."

A few dozen yards away, Scribe paused to scan the area, and blinked. Well, damn, civilization had disappeared pretty fast. There was no sign of habitation anywhere in sight. In fact, there were no roads or telephone or electric lines, either. *Crap. Either boonies or time travel fic. I hope I'm not back in the Xena/Herc fandom. Ares has probably reached the frothing at the mouth stage by now.*

There was a flickering light not too far away. It was getting awful chilly, and she crept toward it cautiously. It turned out to be a campfire. There was a man sitting before it, absorbed in sharpening a large sword. Not a hopeful sign.

Scribe peeked from the concealing cover of a bush. Alright, who was this one? She studied him closely. Good looking *God, aren't they all in this universe? I'd have whiplash from guy watching if they were like this back home. But no one wants to talk around here.*, long, shaggy dark hair. Really good looking, even if half his face was painted blue.

*Lesse...blue face paint. Hm. Celtic. Braveheart? Nah, he don't look like Mel Gibson, and I haven't run into Braveheart fic, why I don't know. So who else... Wait a minute, is the there this really old immortal on Highlander? I wish I'd seen more episodes. What's nam name? Something like a candy mint. Mentos... (God, I hate those smug commercials)... No. Methos. That's it. Methos. Hm. And if memory serves me correctly, I'd better get my ass out o' here, cause he looks like he's in his raping and pillaging phase.* She tiptoed away.

*Well, this isn't so bad, I suppose. I think I've had about as much bad luck as it's possible to get even in..."

It started to snow.

Scribe stood there for a moment, then looked up wearily. "It was the GEN threat, wasn't it? I was joking, okay? I'll write nothing but smut, sleaze, and plot, what plot if you'll just TURN OFF THE FROST FACTORY!"

The flakes drifted down faster, growing quickly into a thick flurry. *Okay, this is uncomfortable. I better find somewhere to get out of this.*

She walked a ways farther. She was shivering steadily now, toes going numb. But even thought the ground was now coated with snow, the air was sweet with a flowery scent, which she sniffed appreciatively. *Can't stop, but I can smell the heather, if not the roses. Huh.* Another look around. *This isn't a field, or a plain, or even a friggin' prairie. It's an honest to Glengary moor. Next thing I know, Heathcliff'll ride up and snatch me.*

There was the thunder of hoofbeats. She screamed, "FUCK! Do you have to take everything I say literally?!" and started to run.

The huge, dark horse sped up behind her. She tried to dodge out of the way, but it didn't run her down. It passed close by. As it did, she was snatched off her feet and dumped unceremoniously across a saddle and a pair of very strong thighs. All she could do was hang on as the horse sped up.

Talk about disorienting. It was worse than going on the Scrambler at a carny after getting half pissed on Tequila. *I did it once, okay? Once was enough.*

The horse came to a stop, and the rider slid off. She was still clutching the animal, not entirely sure that it hadn't stopped, but the world had kept moving. She was tugged from her perch, and dropped into a pair of very competent arms. The horse wandered off to an open stable. The rider began to carry her toward what looked like a rustic thatched hut.

"Uh...thanks for the lift. You can put me down anywhere around here. I'll take a taxi." No answer. The man was wearing a long cloak, and the hood was pulled down low, shadowing his face. *Cripes. Maybe it's Lestat, and I'm going to get a deep hickey before he tries to hme.*me.*

The man shoved the door to the hut open with one booted foot, and carried her in. Once inside, he deposited her on her feet, letting her slide down the length of his body. *Whu-oh. Definiitely a sexy body, and lots of it. That's one. Don't panic, Scribe. You've gotten out of tighter situations than this. Maybe you'll have time to defrost a little before you...* The man was fitting a massive bolt across the door. *To quote Benn'Oh,'Oh, dear.'*

She looked around the hut quickly for another exit as the man lit several candles. Their illumination, along with the fire roaring in the fireplace, gave the room a golden glow. No exits except the way she'd come in. It was a crude, one room affair, with a table, some chairs, a rudimentery kitchen area, and a big bed in one corner, near the fire. Boy, that bed looked soft and warm. rubbrubbed one cold and aching foot against the other and resolutely ignored it.

He came back over to her, and brushed snut out of her hair. "Ye puure wee thing. Y're half frozen."

(ZING!) *OH NO! An accent! A Scottish burr, one of my favorites. That's TWO.* (deep breath) *Get a grip, Scribe. So what? There isn't any P.O.G. You can handle it.*

The man pulled off his cloak, and wrapped it around her. "Here ye are. This should warm yer bones a bit."

Big, broad, built. Sculpted face, dark eyes, lots of dark hair, flowing past his shoulders. He looked familiar. *Well, hell, doesn't EVERYONE in this universe?*

He pushed her gently into a chair, and said, "Pint Of Guinness?"

"Huh? No, that's not it."

He shook his head. "Not P.O.G. I was asking if ye want a pint of ale. Ye look like ye could use it."

"Oh. Yeah, as a matter of fact, I could force some down."

He drew a large glass of dark, foaming liquid from a keg in the kitchen area, and handed it to her, sitting down near her at the table. She chugged the liquid. (hic) "Thank you."

"Ye're welcome. Another?"

"Are you planning on getting me drunk and having your way with me?"

"I'd never trick, or force, a woman to bed her."

"Alright, then." she said gratefully.

He brought her another pint, and she chugged it also. In a few moments, she was feeling distinctly more mellow, and a lot warmer. She regarded him with bemused interest. "I hope you aren't offended, but I can't put a name to you."

He shrugged. "Ye've only written one fic about me. That was an AU, and ye never posted it. I didn't even have my own name in it."

"Well, what is your name?"
"In due time."

"Oh, well, it's nice to know that I don't have to worry about you wanting to knock boots with me."

He inclined his head. "Ohhh, I didn't say that. I just said I wasn't going to trick or force ye."

She eyed him warily. "So how do you intend to accomplish this?"

"Simple. Ye're going to surrender willingly."

"Oooow, re jre just a tad proud of ourselves, aren't we?"

"Not really. It's just that I know yer secret."

She felt a tickle of unease. "No you don't. No one does."

He nodded slowly. "I do."

"I don't believe you."

He reached in his pocked and pulled out something very tiny. Scribe eyed him nervously. He stood up, and came to stand before her. "What's that?"

He held it out to show her. "A key to yer weakness. A way to unlock yer knees. In short, a way to get me what every male and most of the females in this universe have been chasing through twenty one chapters and two series."

She looked more closely, and gasped. It was a small, stretchy circle. "Not... not... a scrunchie!" He spread the little band open with three fingers. "No, you can't know... no one knows!" He slowly reached back with his free hand and gathered his hair together into his fist. She swallowed hard, a sheen of sweat breaking out on her forehead. "No, have mercy. You can't do this to me!" He wrapped the elastic band around the lush hank of hair, and let it drop, falling past his shoulder, down his back. Scribe gave a soft moan and slumped in the chair, staring at him.

He bent down and scooped the unresisting fan fiction author into his arms, carrying her toward the bed. She hid her face against his chest, groaning. "Undone, undone." Her hand crept around, and stroked the thick hair. "I nevhoughought anyone would guess the final temptation..."

"Ponytails on Guys."
He deposited her on the bed, and began to strip. Scribe learned the answer to the ancient question of what, if anything, the Scotsmen wear beneath their kilt. As he moved toward her, she managed one final coherent question. "Who are you?"

"I am Duncan MacLeod, of the Clan MacLeod. And in the end, there can be only one."

Moral: Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.

The End