Talent Night

by Nickers In A Knot

A round robin by several authors

In honor of Nick's birthday, 2002

Note: No, it's not done.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Lunch business was slow today. Of course, Joe had heard that the Restaurant at the end of the universe was offering a two for one special on Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters and that Callahan's Cross Time Saloon had a new drink that instantly cured hangovers even as they caused them. Tough competition. He was going to have to hire Leather-Stripper Alex to drum up a little business. Or maybe, a promotion, such as a business card drawing for a free Mac 27 once a week? He'd have to bring that subject up with the management. An out of work character needs to live too. Joe's occasional fan fiction gigs over at the Seventh Dimension just kept him in guitar picks.

So far this week he had been made to invest in both a mud wrestling pit and a Jell-O wrestling bowl. Why? Who knows? He was in the power of a writer with attention deficit whose last use of canon was an unfortunate encounter with a Quaker Oat commercial. The stage and improved sound system he liked. If he could just get some good fictional blues players...

Ah, business coming. He had no problem recognizing Cory Raines by his earring, his green scarf, and sword, but who was that with him? An unknown? Possibly an original character? Hmm, Joe was allowed to date OC's and if she was another Krycek fan, she had been brain washed into thinking that amputation was a sexy thing. Of course, there was that "Don't touch me again" mantra they liked to recite, but they seldom meant it.

A smile creased Joe's craggy, but handsome features. He waved to Cory and said, "Cory-boy, you're a sight for sore eyes. Pull up a chair, man!"

"Hey, Joseph - How they hangin'?" Cory smiled and settled on a barstool. "This is Sweet-Muse. She's looking to find just the right character for a story - thought we could have a little audition, tonight. I've contacted most of the guys - they should be arriving soon."

Cory glanced at the door ... hoping to see Ricky walk in. The sooner, the better - it had been far too long since they'd seen each other.

"Hey, Joe! Have I got the stage tonight or not?" yelled a newcomer.

"Cory, have you met Loren Farber? He puts on murder mysteries," Joe said. It was always interesting to see the characters meet. Some of them instantly disliked each other. Vic and Anson, for instance. Some of them seemed to shoot pheromones at each other. One look and they were heading for an upstairs room.

Attempting to plaster a dark look on his baby face, Loren remarked, "I kill people for a living, you know. People pay well for a truly depraved murder and I give the best death."

Pleasantly, Cory said, "We'll have to compare notes. I've been known to die for living. Where have you been hiding all this time?"

Pushing back a Napoleon lock of hair that fell across his forehead, Loren said, "Holland. I've been laying low there for years and just recently got back into town."

Holding his hand out to the writer, Loren shot her a blindingly white and toothy smile. He said, "Perhaps, I can help you. I'm a professional story teller myself. Even if you don't want to write about little old me, I can help you stage something with one of the other guys."

Not with the eyelashes! Joe winced as he saw meltdown set in. Cory got a chair under her just in time. Loren preened, glad that eyelashes and dimples needed no translation.

"Would you like to hear my story?" asked his Royal Cuteness.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Pausing at the door, Ricky smoothed his hair and clothes. It had been too long since he'd seen any of the guys. Except Krycek - ran into him all the time. For a while there Krycek had been noticeably absent from stories. That had been a good time for the rest of them. Just about everyone had seen a little action during that lull in Krycek fic. But lately... Shit! Snorting in disgust at the sudden proliferation of stories featuring the one-armed wonder, Ricky pulled the heavy door open and walked in to Joe's.

Having braced himself to face a room full of... well, full of himself, he was a little taken aback to see only Joe, Cory and a new guy.

"Ricky!" Cory greeted enthusiastically. "C'mon over here and get a drink. This is Loren, he was just about to tell us his story. Loren, this is Ricky Caruso," he introduced as Ricky walked over to sit on the bar stool next to Cory's.

As if by some kind of silent agreement, the front door opened, admitting one Lea after another. Some knew each other, some appeared to be first-timers. And, just to keep things interesting, a couple of non-Lea's wandered in here and there.

Ricky settled back against the bar and observed the meetings and greetings between various individuals with great interest. It never ceased to amaze him that once he got to know these guys, he could more often than not tell them apart at sight.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Tom Andrews walked into Joe's, wondering what on earth he was doing there. Word was some writer was looking for a few characters to use in her next story. He'd have to try and convince her to use him, but he wasn't really sure how to do that or if he even wanted to. He sighed and smoothed his hair back, feeling jittery. Things had been so much simpler when he'd been a schoolteacher. He had managed to make a simple life for himself after too many reckless, dangerous years spent breaking the law and avoiding the authorities. He'd even managed to fall in love. And then he had to go and get shot.

He grimaced as he thought about the irony of that. He'd given up guns -- even preached about the evils of them -- and, wouldn't you know it, he died of a gunshot. He'd died and ended up here, cast aside by some uncaring hack who didn't give a second thought to the characters he created. His only consolation was that so far he'd been treated well. Sure, he'd been made to do things that he hadn't ever done before, but that didn't mean he didn't like them. In fact, he liked them quite a bit. So much that he found himself actually checking out the other characters that frequented the bar. Not sure if it was ego that made him find them attractive, he couldn't deny that some of them were really sexy. He immediately blushed at the thought.

"You look like you're thinking too much," a husky voice behind him said.

Tom jumped a little and turned around to see Rodney, a crooked smile on his face. Rodney Lange. Now there was someone Tom wouldn't mind getting to know better. Perhaps it was some sort of nurturing instinct that made him want to find out what made the former boxer tick, but, whatever it was, Tom loved being around him.

"I'm just wondering about this audition business," Tom sighed. "I don't have the faintest idea where to start."

"Don't sweat it," Rodney shrugged. "You don't have to do it if you don't want to."

"But... but I'd really like to be used. I think."

"Being used is overrated," Rodney said bitterly. He looked at the liquor bottles lined up neatly behind the bar, and licked his lips. "I've been used and abused."

Tom followed Rodney's gaze and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Would you like me to get you some water or a soda?"

"You don't have to worry. The drunk isn't ready to fall off the wagon."

"I didn't mean-"

"I know," Rodney said, putting his hand over Tom's. "I'm sorry. Look, we were talking about this writer thing, right?"

"Yeah, but... What did you mean about being used? Have you been treated badly since you've been here?"

Rodney's eyes widened. "What? Oh, no, I didn't mean that. I was talking about my distant past."

"Ohhh...." Tom said, nodding, "before you were killed and ended up here."

"I wasn't killed," Rodney smiled and tousled Tom's hair. "I ... what was it? Oh, yes, I left town with my sister to start a new life."

"Your sister?"

"Yeah." Rodney noticed the puzzled look on Tom's face. "What?"

"Is she here too?"

"No."

"Where is she?"

"I..." Rodney shrugged. "I really have no idea. But I do see her once in a while when someone decides I get to."

"Doesn't that make you sad?"

"Not really, funnily enough. What about you? Do you miss people you knew?"

"Just my girlfriend," Tom sighed. "I haven't been reunited with her yet."

Rodney snickered and slung an arm around Tom's neck, hugging him affectionately. "And don't expect to anytime soon, buddy."

"Why not?"

"In case you haven't noticed, everyone here... prefers the company of men."

"Oh." Tom blushed as his earlier thoughts came rushing back. "I, um... I did wonder why I did those things with..." He cleared his throat and smiled shyly at Rodney. "I've been used once and..." A slow smile crept across his face. "I liked it."

"Good," Rodney nodded, "because if you get picked, chances are you'll have to do it again."

"Do I get a choice? Of who to...you know."

"Not really, no. At least, I didn't. Wasn't so bad in some cases," he grinned.

"Oh, so you've been..."

"Yup."

"And you liked it?"

"Sometimes. So," Rodney said, quickly changing the subject, "have you decided on what you'll do for your audition?"

"I have no idea," Tom shook his head. "I don't have many talents besides teaching and breaking the law. The latter isn't exactly that impressive."

"Oh, man, you haven't been hanging out with Alex much, have you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Look, why don't you and I collaborate on something?" Rodney looked at his watch. "We have time to get something together and practice. What do you say?"

Tom smiled widely and shook his head. "Okay."

"Good. Let's go."

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Jeffrey Leggett sauntered into Joe's bar mostly unnoticed. When he had heard of the audition he had decided to come and see if there was anyone worth recruiting. Instead the sight that greeted him shocked his eyes and numbed his senses. Most of the men inside the bar looked exactly like him. (What the hell?) he thought, (I don't have any family that I know of... What is this, a trick?) Jeffrey couldn't figure it out so slowly he proceeded to the bar. Whatever this was, maybe a drink would help him figure it out.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

"This is it, Lloyd, but, now we're here, there's something I really oughta tell you... "

The man in the crisp USAF uniform turned to his lover and put a friendly arm round him. "What, Anson, huh?"

A nervous smile flitted past, and Anson's eyes sought the ground again. "I should have told you before... " The eyes, his own eyes, flicked up at him, and looked away, "I couldn't."

Lloyd's confidant grin flashed at him, and he tugged the other close and gave him a little shake. "C'mon, man. It can't be that bad."

Anson's palm ran stiffly down the front of the other's coat, snatching on the bright buttons as he relished the hard muscle under the fine smooth serge. He shrugged. "Maybe. I don't think so, but I've been getting to know the way you think, a little... "

He gasped as Lloyd dragged him out of sight behind a large thick bush and squeezed him into a hard kiss. Anson fought away. "I don't think you'll like it, pal." He looked defiantly at the other, humphed, and his eyes slid away. "I just thought it would be good."

"Come away, further in," said Lloyd, pulling Anson's arm. "I haven't screwed you for nearly a day, lover boy, and you smell real fine..."

"For fuck's sake, Lloyd, not now. We've gotta talk."

"Talk? For real? You want to play games, usually, Anse... You kid around, and I have to pussyfoot if 'issues' come up."

"Pussyfoot?" growled Anson, his eyes widening. He barreled the airman against a tree, capturing his crotch in a strong hand and squeezing possessively. "You think I like pretending I'm just some frigging drinking buddy; listening to your dumb jokes with those comrades of yours, after what we've been to each other?"

Hillard grinned, pushing himself against the other's grip with a low moan. "That's it, Anse, I'm real hard - just pull it out and put that hand of yours round it, why don't you? Just a quicky, get me on an even keel for this interview you're dragging me to."

"Pussyfoot?" continued Anson, oblivious. "I'm the one that has to pick my way round in company, making out like I don't care shit about you, hearing all that crap about dirty faggots, hearing you agreeing with the assholes. You were the one that came on to me, remember? You're always telling me how much you love me, how I make you feel so good! You were the one that made me feel good enough to care about another human after all the pain I've had from women, all I learnt from those homo bastards in jail and the psyche ward. Then you treat me like a dirty secret - issues? I've got fucking issues alright! If you cared about me you wouldn't be ashamed of me."

Lloyd wrapped his arms round Anson and pulled him close, running a comforting hand up and down his spine. Anson nestled his warm head in the crook of Lloyd's neck, his breath ragged in Lloyd's ear. "I know, man, I'm sorry," he whispered ruefully, knowing his lover's hurt. "It's my job, you know that. Wait it out... in a coupla years I'll be out of the forces and we can be together for real... then we can start to make a case for you to see your daughter more, OK?"

Anson chuckled against him. Mood changing like a summer storm, he was on a high again. "It could be sooner than that, buddy. It could be today." There was Anse's hot hard body tight against his own, the twin bulges in their groins the truth of how they felt.

"What do you mean?" Lloyd's voice was softly suspicious, more so when he felt Anson's cheek pull tight into a grin. He his belt loosened and suddenly his lover's hands were round his balls, stroking, nudging.

"Y'know, I think you were right about a quicky, soldier-boy." As he spoke he was sloughing off clothes like a dog shaking its pelt. "This gonna be private enough for you? You don't want anyone to find out Lieutenent Hero is a fairy."

"You want me to fuck the answer out of you?" Lloyd's eyes narrowed.

"Sounds like a plan." Anson Green grinned as he pulled off Lloyd's crisply ironed shirt, hung it on a branch nearby and stroked an admiring hand over the toned stomach he had revealed. "You're just beautiful, friend. Damn, I wish I had the discipline... "

Lloyd captured his wrists and held him still. "Stop trying to distract me. What are we heading into?"

Anson twisted, tugged and skipped back out of reach. "Auditioning for a part... Writer wants a character, and she wants one of us Leas."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah... " He sauntered over to a nearby tree, put his hands flat on the trunk and wiggled his butt invitingly. "Cos we're just too fucking irresistible." His eyes twinkled as he looked back over his shoulder and he jerked his head to get Lloyd moving. How could I be such a fool as to fall for this one, thought Lloyd in surrender, as his tingling cock homed in on Anson's cute ass like a guided missile seeking its target. With all the other Leas to chose from... or, if I weren't such a vain prick, one of the Duchovneys like that weirdo that Krycek has the horn for.

Within a minute he was buried to the hilt in the tight searing heat of Anse's hole, pushing up and in with a rhythm that came naturally to them now as a practised waltz. One hand round his lover's prick, so like his own, the other clasping his neck as he sucked and bit the soft-bristled nape. Anson's groans became a purr and Lloyd stilled, and murmured huskily, "So tell me? What's the part?"

"Later man, finish it." The words were sharp as Anson bucked against him.

"Nope," he replied, though it took all his willpower not to let himself slide gently in and out of that sweet ass. "'fess up. What?"

"Dunno." He knew Anson was holding his breath.

"O-kay... so why the guilt, then?"

"You'll finish? You won't leave me like this? Promise?"

"If I promise... ?"

"I'll tell you, but you gotta promise not to let me down. I said you'd be there for this."

Anson sounded a little plaintive, and though Hillard knew ha should have more sense than to promise blindly, his heart softened and he said, "Okay. So, tell me."

"It's slash," muttered Anson, almost under his breath.

"Slash... " echoed Hillard dangerously, yanking Anson's chin back cruelly to look him in he eye. "You know how I feel about that shit. What the hell were you thinking, dummy?"

"I was thinking about how hot you are, what a good lay you are and how fucking good you look in that uniform, Lloyd, my man," replied Anson, without a hint of remorse. "C'mon, you promised. You can slug me afterwards."

"Cheat!" Lloyd gripped him in a tight bearhug, driving each thrust home with a curse. "Slug you? I'll bloody pulverise you."

"You and whose airforce?" Laughing wildly between shocked gasps Anson Green took everything his lover had to offer, shot his load hard as spume spurting from a whale and then held on just to enjoy the ride until Lloyd Hillard's angry lust was spent.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

The handkerchief was disgusting; Lloyd kicked a pile of leaves over it as he continued to try to argue Anson out of the promise he'd so rashly given. Anse was adamant. He could be fucking pig-headed at times, Lloyd thought gloomily. "I've got a good thing going, man, regular work... all those war comics. They like regular guys, grit and clenched teeth. They don't want a hint of a limp wrist or 'relationships' - except occasionally a teary-eyed kiss goodbye from some dumb girlfriend. If I do slash it'll be fucking suicide. You know I had an offer of a major part in a fic based on that new 'Pearl Harbour' movie don't you? They won't touch me if I start screwing guys."

"But you do screw guys," said Anson with an irritating smirk, at ease leaning back against the tree they'd so recently used.

"Not in fic I don't." Lloyd's glare could have seared the bark off. "You know that. No gay stuff, no love-affairs. I'm not running any risks after being tricked into that underage stuff in North of Sixty. It's strictly gen, and strictly action."

"That was years ago - you must be truly stereotyped by now, stupid. You need to show some versatility. I've got an idea." Lloyd looked askance at Anson. That smile had a creepy manic tinge. Before he could stop him, Anson had grabbed his uniform and was buttoning it up.

"What the hell? Give that back, you lunatic."

Anson's hands went up in denial as he danced away. "Oh no, man. I'm gonna let you have some fun - real fun. You're getting to old for that war story crap, anyway. You'll soon be back at base camp, not doing all the glamorous fighting any more. Then you'll just be a supporting character. I'm gonna be you today, and you can be me, huh?"

"What!" Hillard's eyes widened in shock. "No way. You'll start World War Three, or burn the flag or something and then nobody will touch me again. Give me my clothes back!"

"No, I won't. I know how you can do slash and still have respect - but you're too uptight to play it right. I'm gonna be you, and you, Lieutenant Hillard, are gonna become one of those no-shit tough guys, the sort that fucks other guys because they can - not for any hearts and flowers love-sick shit, but because they are so macho that pussy is just to easy for them."

"Are you for real? That's the stupidest idea I've heard in my life."

"Never did the Oz guys any harm. I'd lay you anything any one of them could get a place in a war fic - any het fic that needed a hard edge, no problem." He grinned his naughty-boy grin, and added, "It'll be fun, Lloyd. C'mon, live a little, let go of that stress, and be something else."

Lloyd looked at him dubiously. "You're the stressed one round here, Anse... "

"Not since I met you, babe. You are better than any therapy. Please?" He walked over to his lover and saluted crisply, then kissed him gently. Lloyd found the sensation of his naked self in front of the spruce military man bizarre in the extreme, but hot, so hot. His cock returned the salute with alacrity. "I'd enjoy it, and so would you. She probably doesn't want a psychotic helicopter pilot like in 'Apocalypse Now' anyway, so no harm done. Just for a laugh... ? You can gibber if you like; do the total mad-man thing. I won't get pissed."

The other bit his lips hard, but he could hold it no longer, he laughed. Doubled up, tears running from his eyes, he nodded weakly and reached for Anson's clothes. "Just one thing, Anse, " he said, once he had his breath back. "I take the bullets out of my gun. No-one's gonna see the joke if you shoot the writer, OK?"

Arm-in-arm, they pushed open the bar door and stepped inside.

Everyone was sitting around with fatuous smiles on their faces as one of the Leas murmured quietly and intimately to a lady whose table groaned under the weight of assorted and garish cocktails. Striding up to the barman, Anson thumped his fist on the bar with a force that made all the glasses hop into the air.

"Champagne for the lady, Joe, and give me a whiskey... no, on second thoughts, make that a bottle. We could be here a while; I have a list of credentials as long as your arm to show the fair author." He jerked his hips obscenely then wriggled his eyebrows at Cory, and added, "Know what I mean, pansy-boy?"

Scooping up the bottles and glasses with a flourish, he sashayed over to the author, who had just finished with the man she had been talking to, and took her arm gently.

"What's a beautiful lady like you doing in this dump when the night outside is as sweet as jasmine and the stars are shining like diamonds? Let me take you away from all this; we can dance under the sky while I tell you all about my exploits."

As the bemused author was led unresisting through the door, Anson was saying, "Maybe I should start with my time in the jungles of Ecuador, on a secret mission to rescue the president's wife from Belgian terrorists."

"Find some salsa on the juke-box, Anson, and jack up the volume," he called back over his shoulder. "I'm going to show the little lady here some of my best moves."

In open-mouthed horror Lloyd watched the door swing shut behind his lover. He looked around. Every eye was fixed on him. He felt like a bug pinned to a board. With a bloodcurdling scream, which he hoped sounded sufficiently unhinged, he ran to the bar, gate-vaulted over it, and sprinted for the back door.

Fucking Anson. He should have had more sense than to trust him. He had pulled some stupid stunts before, though none of them had affected him directly. His life was over. Shit, *Anson's* life was over once he got him alone again.

He crept round the side of the building, heading for their car. He should have walked away, shouldn't have agreed to Anson's wild idea. Suddenly three white coated figures leapt from the bushes and seized him. A balding man in a pin-striped suit followed them

"Mr. Green, so good to see you again. We've come to take you home."

"What the hell? Who are you? Let me go, I'm not Anson Green," protested Lloyd, struggling wildly. "My name's Hillard, I'm a helicopter pilot."

"Well, that's interesting," said the suited man smoothly. "Last time we met you were some preacher - and before that, let me see, John Wayne wasn't it? Now, I'm hoping you'll come quietly, or I'll have to sedate you, Anson, and I know you hate that."

"Dammit, Anson's just round the corner, wearing my uniform. Ask him, for christsakes... "

"It's OK Anson, you'll soon be feeling better," soothed one of the nurses as the other two wrestled him into a straitjacket. "Your old room-mate, Big Horace, is still with us and he's *really* missed you."

"Let me go!" yelled Lloyd, flinging himself on the ground and writhing desperately for the bushes. This was bad, really bad. If they succeeded in taking him he might never convince them of the truth.

"I'm sorry, Anson, you are forcing my hand," said a sorrowful voice. A needle plunged into his buttock. With a sob, Lloyd felt the world slip away.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

He hadn't been to the bar before, but after studying all the angles, he'd decided that today was the day. The cards were all good, and the dice were showing doubles each time he rolled them. How could he possibly fail?

He paused at the men's room, checking himself out in the mirror before he entered the taproom. He could hear music coming from the door, funky blues played by someone who knew his way around a guitar. It wasn't his first choice. He liked the pounding drive of disco, but he could dig this too. Music was essential to him.

He flicked a piece of lint from his collar and studied his reflection. Man, he rocked. His suit fitted him as though it were a necessary part of him. The velvet collar was a nod back to his boyhood idols, the Beatles, and his hair was in perfect disarray, with that one strand falling over his eye just so. Mocking green eyes, arrogant chin, erect posture what's not to love?

So be it. It's my date with destiny. Let's do it, he thought. So what if I was only a teaser? There's more to me than that pathetically horny, confused little grifter they permitted his 30 seconds of fame. They'll see. I could move worlds. I could buy and sell whole cities. Try me.

Pushing open the door into the bar, he allowed the noise and the smoke and the laughter to wash over him.

Brett Halsey is here, he thought to himself, and strode up to the bar.

The dark haired man with the thin face who moved to assist him had compelling hazel eyes, and a sardonic smile that made Brett frown. Turning on the blinding light of his most winning smile, Brett made a little play with his eyelashes. "Gimme a Jack Daniels, he murmured, huskily. I'm Brett. I'm new here. Are you Joe?"

"No, I'm just helping out," replied the man, pouring a generous amount of liquid into a glass and pushing it over the counter to Brett. "You here for the audition?"

"Yeah," Brett was distracted, looking about at the décor. "Y'know, they could really do things with this place... A little lighting, some naked girls dancing in cages... it would go really well."

"I think that Joe's pretty fond of it the way it is, thank you." He indicated the small stage, where a grey haired guy in a muscle shirt was playing his heart out. So that was Joe? Brett nodded, impressed in spite of himself. He'd heard that Joe was a cripple, but that guy was seriously built. Maybe he'd come back here again sometime. There was movement behind him and Brett turned around again to ask the bartender a question. Thin-face had been temporarily distracted as a man in a fedora, with a set of green eyes as large and lushly fringed as his own suddenly passed over a hip flask.

"Hey, Methos, fill 'er up. I'm in danger of having blood in my alcohol stream." The man called Methos turned to take the flask, and Brett had time to study the newcomer. He'd heard of this one, who hadn't? He'd been a single shot deal, of course, but he'd been in the whole show. Fuck, he'd even been the guest star. If Brett could have been the guest star he wouldn't have let MacLeod blow him up like that. He'd have had the money and the girl and been out of there leaving MacLeod to clear up the mess. How dared they fucking kill me? Nobody even knew what it was that I'd done. Some plot device, hmmm? Best looking corpse ever.

Sipping his drink, he turned to study the room. There were a huge number of men who looked like him. He hadn't realized just how many there would be. Lots of them seemed to know each other, and he wondered how it had happened that he'd missed out. He'd heard of some. Alex Krycek, for instance. Brett wondered if he'd be here. He'd love to meet that guy. Alex Krycek had been his role model for a couple of years now, and although Brett hadn't had much luck persuading people to write him, he comforted himself in the knowledge that Alex's writers hadn't been any kinder to him either. He felt a great kinship to the dark warrior and hoped that he could meet him tonight to express his admiration.

Someone came to stand beside him. He'd already been served with a drink, and now he stood, his back against the bar, and his elbows casually against the shiny surface. The guy was like him, of course, but boy did he have a lot to learn! He was about as far as one could get from Brett's carefully maintained appearance. Frankly, looking at him, the man was a slob.

His disdain didn't seem to faze the guy. He'd obviously been awaiting eye contact, and now that he had it, he was going to talk to him, come hell or high water. Brett resigned himself to the inevitable as slob-guy smiled cheerily at him and raised his glass.

"Good crowd here tonight," said slob-guy, his own smoky tones issuing from the mouth that was the same in every way as his.

"If you like that sort of thing," Brett replied. What the hell was that thing the shabby dude was drinking? It had umbrellas, and fruit and stuff hanging out of it, and it glowed a virulent, luminous green. "Personally, I prefer to see them a little more lively. A few women wouldn't hurt either." He waved his arm around, artlessly, trying to appear far more worldly-wise than the slob with whom he was talking. The slob seemed unfazed. He took a sip of the green horror, and grinned.

"Everything is as it should be. Don't keep trying to wish your life away. Stand back and smell the roses." Brett blinked as the slob warmed to his homily. "I'm Matthew, by the way, pleased to meet you."

Brett blinked. The slob obviously was as pleased as he professed himself to be. He exuded god nature, and as Brett wondered whether to turn and go, he had already launched into a barrage of questions.

"Do you run a nightclub?" The husky voice was winning, and despite himself Brett found himself wanting to tell the slob -- Matthew, he corrected himself all about himself.

"I did, until a creep who couldn't wait for me to pay him back the money I'd borrowed stuck a knife between my ribs." He shrugged. "My writers didn't recognize greatness. You know how it goes, I'm sure."

Matthew laughed. "Mine weren't too bad. Threw me into a fucking freezing lake in the nude, but apart from that I had a fairly good time. Don't think I want to go back to cooking, but I don't mind traveling around. I got to play a bunch of fairly serious stuff for laughs, which is always a good thing. There's only one part that I hold against them." Pausing, he took a contemplative sip of the ugly drink, nibbled on a piece of fruit, and destroyed one of the umbrellas that had seemed intent on finding its way up his nose.

Brett watched the performance with fascination. The man was sexy, and obviously had no idea. Take away the horrible old blue shirt and faded canvas pants, put him into a sharp suit, and you'd have... well, Brett, actually. You couldn't get better than that.

"What is it? What are you holding against them?" Against his will he was becoming fascinated by this... this hippie. He realized that there was little or no profit to be made from an association with him; in fact, the man was a rival, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to care.

Matthew glanced at Brett from beneath long, sweeping lashes, and there was a moment when Brett felt his insides rearrange themselves subtly. He gasped. What the hell? He was feeling... was getting... Fuck!

"It was the fucking chickens, man. I'm a writer. They made me tend to a bunch of chickens. That's just not right. I told them that I wasn't gonna go back, but they made me go as far as Princeton anyway. I'm telling you, I was out of there so fast..." The plush lips that Brett's eyes were drawn to stopped speaking, and curved around the straw of his drink once more. Unconsciously, Brett moved closer.

"You..." His voice didn't sound quite right. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Um... er... what do you actually like to do?"

"Me?" Matthew smiled again, white teeth flashing, and Brett was lost. "I like to talk to people. I told you, I'm a writer myse..." His word was cut off as Brett stepped forward and gave in to the urge that had been growing for the past few minutes.

As his lips crushed down onto Matthew's, he found himself wondering whatthehell and then it dawned on him. Pulling away just enough to speak against the surprisingly soft mouth of the other, he murmured, "Y'know what? We don't have to audition. A writer's got us both now. I can tell."

The chuckle from Matthew was deliciously knowing. "Go with the flow, man. Your karma will thank you for it if you do."

As Brett sealed his mouth to Matthew's once again, his tongue dipped in to taste sickly, sugary alcohol, and something more: he slipped his hand through his newfound companion's short hair, cupped the back of his head, and went for it. There was always going to be time for drinking, but it wasn't often that one found oneself being written. Time to suspend belief, and party.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

First impressions are everything.

Philip Paget's mother had told him that time and again - or so his hastily concocted backstory went. It was that ingrained lesson that had brought out the natural performer in him. It was also his reason - some might call it an excuse - for the desire to make an entrance.

He was gratified that virtually all eyes, most of them the same green as his own, turned toward him as he entered the bar. While Philip knew that his dark suit and medium-starched white shirt flattered him, he knew full well what drew their eyes -- the python wrapped around his torso. The snake was both a prop and an ally. Philip was completely comfortable with the reptile in both of those contexts. They had been together a long time, only torn apart briefly by the actions of the hapless investigators who, for some inexplicable reason, were the stars of a perfectly horrid television show.

Internally wincing, Philip tried unsuccessfully to steer his thoughts away from his experience with so-called "professional" writers. Snakes were sensual creatures, so it was at least plausible, in his view, that a snake god, when acting through a mortal vessel, would use sexual energy to heal. And what a small price it was to pay, if indeed it could be viewed as payment at all -- sex with him in exchange for healing the incurable. It had been insulting in the extreme to suggest that the price was too high or untoward in any way, but that's what the writer had done.

What's more, the author had suddenly stricken his or her -- Philip had never bothered to inquire -- seemingly intelligent "villain" with a massive case of the stupids to enable the "heroes" to prevail. Couldn't the moron see that an equally attractive premise was that the snake god was playing pimp for him? How could the dumb fuck pass up the moral ambiguity embraced by the question -- who was the victim of the piece really?

Stubbornly refusing even to consider the travesty perpetrated on him by the wardrobe people, Philip surveyed the scene before him wearing the easy smile of the utterly confident, oddly gratified by the fundamental differences he sensed between himself and all those who were superficially like him. Despite his humble beginnings in a plotline that could only generously be called poor, Philip felt on par with these others for the purpose for which they'd gathered here.

May the best man win, he thought, as his eyes continued to scan the competition.

When the door opened again behind Philip, he took a clandestine peek over his shoulder. It simply wouldn't do to give over the floor so quickly to another.

He needn't have worried. This one looked like he wanted to fade into the background. That reticence, along with the slightly longish hair framing the younger version of his face and the casual clothes almost haphazardly draped over his athletic frame, called an idea to Philip's mind.

The more he considered it, the more it appealed. Winningly, he smiled at the newcomer.

Already regretting accepting the invitation, Mac Stringer paused just inside the door of the bar and sidled crabwise along the wall to his left. There were so many versions of ... well, of ... himself here. And he was sure they all would be better choices for the author than he was. After all, he was a one-off guest character in a little known Canadian television series.

What's worse than not getting the girl, Stringer? Getting her but not being able to keep her -- that's what.

To be honest, Terri had gotten him, not the other way around. She'd handcuffed the two of them together for Christ's sake and dragged him off to have her wicked way with him. Over and over. In his NC-17 rated version of their sequel, they'd tried some positions he'd never dreamed of and it was all good. Very very good - like they'd both acknowledged that it had been backstory-wise. After that, he'd been sure that she'd come to Ottawa with him. If not right then, when her series was canceled. But she hadn't.

And what fun that had led to - huh?

His professional character peers, other young men in the RCMP who were waiting for a chance to shine, were relentless and brutal. They tormented Mac unmercifully about being a stud at foreplay but falling down on the job - so to speak, they'd qualify with snickers and smirks - when it came to the main event. No pun intended, they'd add, lying through their hopelessly straight, pearly white teeth with manly dimples showing all the while. It was enough to make an ambitious guy sick to his stomach.

Cries of, "The censors wouldn't allow us to go any further on screen," went for naught.

"Sure, that scene in the back room of the art gallery was ... ok," they'd always reply. "But you didn't finish her off then and we're betting that the off camera stuff would've been equally embarrassing."

There was no way to refute what they said. None. So Mac wallowed. He missed Terri. They'd had fun together and there were some sparks between them that he would've sorely liked some writer or another explore. Stringer knew in his soul that they would've been explosive together.

No pun intended. Really.

So Mac had kept to himself, shunning the other characters of his ilk and hoping for a better future. When this opportunity to audition had come along, he'd been excited at first, but then reality had reasserted itself in a big way. How could he compete with the big boys? Alex, Vic and Cory got most of the attention -- and rightfully so, it seemed to Stringer. Alex and Vic were more well rounded and Cory was so fun-loving that he leant himself to all sorts of scenarios. Being immortal didn't hurt the old time line either. Others, like Ricky, Baines and Matthew, had their devotees as well - people so intrigued by the blanks left by the creators that they gleefully filled them in. Even Anson, as fucked up as he was, garnered attention, primarily because he was so fucked up and tales of possible redemption get a lot of interest.

With a sigh, Stringer silently admitted, "I've got nothing to recommend me but some unresolved sexual tension. And with a girl at that. No help there with a lot of writers. I'm not like the other guys - the ones who get written about."

Who am I kidding?

A voice at the back of his mind suggested, "Him, maybe?"

Who him?

"The guy with the snake."

Snake? Internal voices with lame senses of humor Stringer didn't need. Yet he found himself for the first time focusing outward, his eyes shifting around the room. And to his amazement, there was a guy with a snake -- a big, kind of scary looking snake - wrapped around him, who was looking his way and smiling.

A quick glance in his own vicinity revealed that snake guy had to be looking at him. There was no one else really close enough. Unnerved, Mac looked over his shoulder, even though he could feel the wall at his back. That amused the other guy, and Stringer could hear the chuckle over the ambient noise level in the room.

Blushing, Mac looked away. Undisciplined, his eyes skipped back to the other man and saw that he was still looking, still smiling. Hesitantly, Stringer smiled back. That got him a grin, and the hope that he might have found someone with whom he could watch the festivities. Now, if he could only convince his feet to approach. Resignedly, Mac settled in for a long negotiating session.

Why couldn't they have made me better with people?

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Tom let them into the small home he'd been given since showing up in this mysterious world. It was remarkably similar to the place he'd had when he'd been alive, and for that he was grateful. If things ever began to overwhelm him, he had this sanctuary to which he could return.

"You can put your jacket over there," Tom said, pointing to a wooden chair next to a large, heavy wooden table. "And you can sit at the table or on the bed." He blushed a little. "Um, it's...it's just more comfortable, that's all."

Rodney glanced at the bed pushed against the far wall then shrugged out of his denim jacket, slinging it over the back of the chair. "I like this place. Really rustic, peaceful."

"It's just a place to hang my hat, but I like it. Thanks."

"You're welcome," Rodney said, suddenly feeling a pleasant fluttering in his stomach at the smile Tom flashed him. "Um, I guess we should start brainstorming, huh?"

"Good idea." Tom sat down on the edge of the bed. "What would make a good impression, do you think?"

"Um, besides us doing a strip tease ending in a full blown sex session? Not much." Rodney smiled and sat down next to Tom.

Tom licked his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. "Are...are you serious?"

"No," Rodney laughed and reached up to tousle Tom's hair. "Well, maybe a little..." He saw the wary look on Tom's face and laughed again. "I'm sorry, I'm just kidding around."

"I like your laugh. I don't think I've seen you laugh so much."

Rodney paused at the non sequitur. "My laugh?"

"Yeah," Tom nodded. "You always look so angry and tired. But today you seem so..." He shrugged. "You're glowing."

"Glowing..." Rodney repeated. "Um, are you feeling okay?"

"Yes, better than okay," Tom said, sliding closer to the puzzled fighter.

"What's come over you?" Rodney asked, his gaze flickering over Tom's face and finally settling on his mouth.

"I don't know. I think..." Tom leaned in, "I think it's because of what you just said, or maybe it's because I just want to do this..." He pressed his mouth to Rodney's, surprising himself with the eagerness he felt as he kissed him. What was even more surprising was the hunger with which Rodney returned the kiss.

"This isn't going to help with the audition," Rodney said breathlessly, his hands moving up to tangle in Tom's hair, gripping it tightly as he pulled him in for another kiss.

"Fuck the audition," Tom murmured against Rodney's lips before pushing him back onto the bed.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Tom trailed a hand over Rodney's sweaty chest, almost purring, he was so content. "Sorry I made you miss the talent show."

"Don't be," Rodney sighed, taking Tom's hand and bringing it to his lips. "I have a feeling we wouldn't have been picked anyway. This was a much better use of our time." He let go of Tom's hand and moved quickly, pinning down the other man before he had a chance to react. "Besides," he brushed his lips over Tom's, "I'd much rather enjoy your talents in private."

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

Philip faced his audience, eyes intense, mouth quirked in a small, mysterious smile, heart pounding with the similarities between this audition and live theater. Easily projecting his voice, even while pitching it low and sensual, he began.

"Not all of you know me. I'm Philip Paget. My official storyline is what most of you would probably call ridiculous; you'll get no argument from me. But the fun and, indeed, the challenge of writing about a character like me is in picking out a few salient facts and developing them into something more coherent than what was presented originally and that can be posted with the cyberspace equivalent of a straight face. The former, in this particular case, wouldn't be very hard."

Strolling as though he didn't have a care in the world, Philip casually glanced toward a small tree planted in a large ceramic pot that gave it plenty of room to grow. His python had wound herself around that tree to lounge, ostensibly bored with Philip's mingling. She wasn't there. Philip smiled.

"If I might be so bold as to make a thematic suggestion, I would recommend incorporating a snake or two. Actual snakes rather than a deity that takes that form." With a self-deprecating shrug, Philip added, "I get on well with snakes."

One of the other, younger contestants - Ricky with an Italian last name, Philip thought -- smirked and played the straight man, asking, "Why snakes?"

"It might surprise you, but snakes are very versatile from a story telling perspective, ranging from the Biblical to the Naturalist. They can tempt, threaten or simply take their place in an ecosystem of the writer's choice."

Scanning the room, Philip judged that it was time to introduce the topic he'd been carefully working his way toward. His accomplice was almost in position. "What is less well known and explored is the fact that some snakes can sense things about people. Emotional upheaval. Distress. Pain."

As he'd expected, the rumblings in the bar were those of disbelief. Politeness, in the spirit of the competition, kept them more or less inaudible, but the mood of his audience was clear. Philip said nothing, letting the adverse sentiment build, waiting.

"Um ... Philip?" Expression impassive, he turned toward the man who'd spoken, the reluctant RCMP officer he'd briefly conversed with earlier. Mac Stringer had, for this event, foregone formal serge and more work-a-day suits in favor of worn blue jeans and a dark blue button down shirt and, for that, Philip was grateful. Casual was a much better look for what Paget had in mind. He didn't like to share the spotlight with anyone who looked better than he did.

"Yes, Mac," he replied, eyes wide, guileless.

Looking sheepishly around the room, Stringer muttered, "About your snake ..."

"Hmm? Oh, she's no problem."

Philip didn't think he was supposed to hear Stringer's muttered, "Easy for you to say, pal."

His soft-spoken words were accompanied by the men closest to Mac suddenly giving him a wider berth, both undoubtedly occasioned by the snake that had wound herself around his left leg, now moving languidly to encircle his waist.

Some education was in order, and Philip thought that there was a chance that certain of the helpful information might inspire the author, who was watching he and Mac with concern tinged with - dare he think it - interest. "Don't worry, Mac. If she was acting with malice aforethought, she'd have done both legs and taken you down by now."

"Yeah? That's great news, but..." Philip interrupted Stringer with a smile, finishing his analysis with a flourish. "She's just flirting with you."

"Oh God." Wary eyes regarded the python coiled twice around his leg, once each around waist and chest.

"Why don't you come on up here and I'll see about untangling the two of you," Philip suggested in his most helpful tone, trying hard for earnest. However, he couldn't resist a borderline flippant addendum. "If you really want me to."

Stringer hesitated, betraying the full extent of his reluctance to participate as his desire to part from his reptilian admirer was palpable.

"C'mon," Paget cajoled, gratified when the other man took a few steps in the correct direction. "I won't bite." As Mac's head whipped around toward him, he hastily added, "And neither will she."

Giving the impression that the snake was squeezing each word out of him, Stringer murmured, "Don't wanna fuck up your audition."

Philip waved a hand dismissively, grinning. "This'll demonstrate how flexible I am." Weighing his next words carefully, Philip ventured, "And you as well, if you relax a bit."

As he stepped lightly onto the stage, Mac muttered, "Relax, the man says. In case it's escaped your notice, I've got a big snake coiling around me."

Without hesitation, Philip reached out and slipped his hand between Sophia and Stringer at various points. "That's nothing more than supporting her own weight. If she was asserting herself, you'd know." Meeting Stringer's eyes, Philip clarified, "She certainly wouldn't let me at you."

Mac was far from pacified. "This is a poisonous snake, isn't it?"

"Technically, she is, but..."

"There's nothing technical about the need for anti-venom."

Paget hid a grin behind his hand when Stringer glanced to his left and his snarl became something of a squeak as he found himself nose-to-forked tongue with Sophia. To Philip, the gaze she turned on Mac was thoughtful.

"She prefers smaller mammals, Mac. They're much easier on her digestion."

"Glad to hear it." Yet Stringer remained skeptical. "But that happy fact begs this question. Why is she looking at me like that?"

A little projection wouldn't hurt the cause of trying to attract writer interest. "I'd guess that Sophia is wondering about you. Maybe why you bothered to show if she had to drag you up here."

Stringer blushed and looked down at the floor, sending a pang of remorse through Philip. He'd thought Mac was just shy, but it was now painfully evident that there was more to his reticence than that. Undecided as to how to extricate them both from the situation, Philip watched in fascination as the snake settled her head on one of Stringer's shoulders, looking for all the world like a sated lover.

Mac relaxed, gazing down at Sophia with more curiosity than fear, but he jumped when Philip's voice purred directly into his ear.

"You have relationship trouble, Mac?"

Bitterly, Stringer observed, "You need a relationship to call it that, Philip."

"Don't hide behind semantics." Taking Mac's earlobe gently between his teeth, Philip slowly traced its outline with his tongue.

"Stop that."

Despite his admonishment to Stringer, Philip complied with the letter of the directive, abandoning Mac's earlobe for the sensitive skin below his ear. Taking time from that pleasant task only to murmur his advice, "Forget her," and seek to prove his assumption correct. "We are talking about a her - right?"

Obviously miserable, Stringer lamented, "How can I forget if ... she's all I've got?"

Focusing completely on Mac, Philip sighed. "The same way the rest of us deal with our own storyline limitations - use our imaginations until someone else brings theirs to bear on our situation." The bleakness in Stringer's eyes pulled more words out of Philip. "Don't worry. If it can happen for me, it'll happen for you. I bet they don't even have to resurrect you. Am I right?"

His solemn nod prompted Philip to return to working over his neck, not relenting even when those efforts drew a reluctant whimper from Stringer.

"What the fuck?"

Philip didn't need to look up from the other man's throat; the strident edge in Mac's voice told him everything he needed to know. Sophia had a sense of humor and it was the rare individual who didn't react to the flicking of her tongue on sensitive portions of their anatomy. It recalled starkly to mind that her fangs weren't far away. And, for Stringer, a distraction or two had to be a good thing. As he gently stroked Mac's back in an effort to calm him, he thought about Sophia's proclivities, hoping that she wouldn't up the ante too soon.

Chuckling, Philip returned his mouth to Mac's ear, mimicking the snake that had just mimicked him. "Didn't I tell you she was flirting with you?"

"Ye ... Yeah, ya ... you ... Christ ... did."

Noting Stringer's stunned expression, Philip whispered, "Feels good, doesn't it?"

"What?"

The answering of his question with a question spoke volumes of denial. Philip could see that Sophia was tightening and then loosening her coils, not enough to bring more than the slightest amount of pain, if that, at the moment of application of the most force. The effect, Philip knew, was akin to a slow sensual caress of the body beneath hers, namely Mac's inner thigh, crotch and left nipple.

His hand found Stringer's other nipple and he used his deep, slightly raspy voice to excellent advantage. "You need a writer to take you in hand don't you?"

Sophia hadn't ceased her rhythmic, highly erotic undulations and Mac turned to Philip in desperation, nodding his agreement a bit too vigorously.

Smiling, Philip noted, "That'll take some time, though. The creative process is notoriously slow. You ok with waiting?"

"I ... ah ... waiting?"

No words came to Philip's generally glib tongue. His throat was dry and his mind blank. Stringer looked innocently gorgeous, all big eyes and trembling with a need that he didn't want to acknowledge.

"To be taken in hand." Grinning, Philip let his eyes shift from Mac's to the other man's crotch, causing Stringer to shift uncomfortably and blush a red that would rival his dress uniform for vividness. Completely forgetting for the moment the reason he'd taken this stage, Paget found himself wanting to know whether what he sensed was, in fact, innocence. For Mac's ears alone, he murmured, "Or maybe you'd prefer me to be speaking more literally."

Lowering the volume still further, Stringer replied, voice hoarse. "Guys aren't my thing." Stumbling a bit, evidencing a struggle with the concept, he continued, "Neither are snakes. Um ... no offense."

Philip laughed aloud, and his voice resounded throughout the bar. "He apologized to Sophia. Only a true gentleman dashes a lady's hopes with a care to her feelings." Stepping back, Paget gestured grandly and announced, "I must bow to one of my betters." With an impudent smirk, he asked, "Anything you'd like me to take care of while I'm down there?"

A quick look at his audience revealed that Philip's offer had directed their attention where he wanted it at this particular moment - on Mac. Now he could be certain that he wasn't the only one who'd noticed the flush to Stringer's skin that was impossible to attribute completely to embarrassment, and Sophia obligingly shifted her embrace to expose the inspiration for Philip's words pressed insistently against confining denim.

Staring into eyes that accused, Philip said what needed saying. "Stop dwelling on the one who got away, Mac. If you open yourself to the possibilities that present themselves, you might be surprised by what satisfies you in the end."

Stringer didn't speak, and Philip couldn't have been happier. His arousal attested to Philip's sexual prowess and the genuinely contemplative expression might just garner Paget a few sensitivity points, something that his character, as originally written, sorely lacked.

To demonstrate his command of the performance, Philip ordered, "Come, Sophia, your work is done."

Lazily and slowly enough to be interpreted as reluctant, the snake disengaged herself from Stringer. That she did it while studiously ignoring the arm that Philip had extended in favor of slithering back to her potted tree threatened to ruin the effect.

Cursing the behavior of females of all species - or was it families, classes or orders, Philip couldn't remember at what level the reptile/mammal distinction was made -- under his breath but throwing a smile and a wink toward the audience, Philip stepped forward, leaned in and placed the neglected arm around Mac's shoulders. "Excuse us," he said, steering the younger man from the stage, inclining his head in lieu of a bow to signify the end of his audition.

During the stroll from the stage to the far wall, the part he'd devised for himself became Philip's reality. He propped Stringer up against the wall and tilted his chin up with his forefinger. "You ok?"

A nod was all he got for his trouble. Frowning slightly, Philip allowed his disbelief to emerge. "You have no idea, do you?"

Stringer shook himself out of the strange passivity that had come over him when Philip and Sophia had ... had ... done what they'd done. Frustrated by being unable to follow Philip's train of thought, he muttered, "Idea of what?"

"How you looked when we were up there. You were ... exquisite."

That word wasn't an adjective with which Mac identified in any way. "Me?"

Nodding slowly, Philip bent forward and pressed his lips to Stringer's, gently exploring what for the other man was unknown territory. "You."

"But I'm not ... I mean, I'm just ... me."

In recognition of Mac's unwillingness or inability to process that he'd just been kissed, rather thoroughly, by a man, Philip kissed him again, more demandingly this time. And again. And once more, lifting his head in triumph when Mac finally responded.

A small smile graced Stringer's features as he opened his eyes and turned a smoky green gaze on Philip. "Exquisite, huh?"

Nothing like a little attention to bolster the old confidence.

Philip nodded, curiosity assuaged. Mac Stringer was far from innocent, and Philip relished the plethora of doors that openness to decadence unlocked. It was only right and proper for him to ensure that Mac followed his advice and opened himself up to them all.

So to speak.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

He was nervous, very nervous, and the sweat was dripping off of him into his eyes, but he couldn’t wipe it away—the costume prevented that. The pony nudged his trainer with a pitiful begging look hoping he’d understand. He’d never been displayed this way before, and he was feeling very skittish

His trainer saw the problem immediately, and pulled a green bandana out of his own admittedly skimpy costume and carefully wiped his face. Oh god-- relief, what a relief. The soft cloth was turned over to a dry side and then his eyes were gingerly dabbed to remove the stinging fluid from the dark lashes. The pony signaled his thanks by nuzzling his trainer on his warm thigh.

Despite the situation he found himself in at the moment, Roy still could not believe his good luck. He’d found the Lieutenant here at Joe's a few weeks ago, and there is something about a man in uniform that makes him weak in the knees. Baines’d been sprawled in a booth nursing a beer and an attitude, so Roy took his courage in hand and sat in the empty bench across from offering commiseration, another drink—anything—to get the handsome officer in the sack. Roy could not believe his success; he had Baines and more than that, a new avocation.

They'd come into Joe’s for a drink and maybe a late lunch today, having been scarce for the last couple of weeks. Roy had no idea their private games were suddenly going to be a public spectacle, Baines had started whispering in his ear, describing just what it would feel like—how pretty he would be on stage under the lights. He started to zone out, get into that pony frame of mind. He shook his head to dispel the feeling, it was too early, and they didn’t even have the gear with them.

It was rare for a pony and trainer to find each at the beginning, to train each other as it were, but he and Baines shared more than the same pretty face. Sub-vocal communication came naturally to them and the teamwork appealed to Roy: Baines already knew its importance, as did Zunoski.

The bar had started to fill up with a buzz of that same rough voice when Baines slipped out to get their gear leaving Roy to talk to the ringmaster about getting their chance at the spotlight; he hoped Cyril would bring Zunoski. It would be good to have his self-appointed stable boy there to calm him as the harness and bridle were fitted.

He slugged back the last of his now-warm beer, and went to see the man in charge. It had taken a long time for him to regain his self-confidence after whats-her-face brutally dumped him, but in the end he was glad she had done it. Roy could now not fathom spending his eternal afterlife as her whipping boy; she would never have given him the opportunity to discover so much about himself, as Baines had.

A knot of people surrounded Loren Faber and the writer, for whom the spectacle was being arranged, was in the thick of it as well. Loren looked like a rooster in a hen house; the girl looked a little dazed. Roy pushed through the crowd, and greeted the impresario.

"Hi, I’m Roy." He’d given up being annoyed by not even getting a last name; he’d felt like a red shirt on Star Trek, but Cy had said it made him sound like Madonna instead.

The young man in the trendy, spotless shirt and jacket greeted him warmly. "Hello, Roy." Over his shoulder, Loren yelled at Joe. "How many more are there, it seems like an endless supply!"

Joe hollered back, "There’s a few more none of us has seen yet, but I don’t expect them in anytime soon."

Loren grinned at the man in front of him. "So, I take it you’d like to audition?"

Roy cleared his throat. "Ahem. Yes, Baines and I have a little something we’d like to share, I think it’s pretty spectacular."

"Lieutenant Baines?" Loren was still smiling, and a gleam came into his eye.

"Yeah, Lt. Baines. We’ve been working on this together for a few weeks, though we had no idea it would *public* quite so soon." He gave a nod to the stage. "We’ll have to clear a few things off the stage, though. Are there a few more lights? No, wait I think a spotlight would be better. "

"Just let me know when your ready, I’m sure we can make what ever adjustments you need. You have certainly intrigued me!"

Roy smiled at the director. "My work here is done, then."

"Not even a hint?" Loren could usually get what he wanted, but the other man shook his head.

"Let’s leave it a surprise, shall we?"

"Very well then—I look forward to your exhibition, as does Sweet Muse, I’m sure."

Roy smiled down at the seated writer, and extended his hand to her. "Pleased to meet you. I think you’ll have a whole new arena to explore when we’re done." He laughed at his own humor.

She took his warm hand. "Yes, I can’t wait, it sounds interesting!."

Roy took his leave from the entrepreneur and writer, and made his way back through the crowd to the back door. Baines was there already with the gear in hand, Zunoski at his side.

"I didn’t want you to have to make your debut without being properly outfitted." Zuni grabbed a quick hug. "This is pretty exciting, I know you’ll do yourself proud."

Roy laughed. "I always do, don’t I?" Thing was, Zunoski understood more than Baines did, where it was that Roy went in his mind when he was a pony, and had helped Roy realize how close it was to meditation, and to let himself fall into the ecstasy.

Baines was antsy; he was ready to go. "Let’s get this show on the road. Is everything ready?"

"Go tell Faber we’re ready, I’ve told him what need, he’ll make sure it’s all done."

Baines looked at the pair reluctantly. He liked watching Zunoski dress out his pony, but the necessity of the moment dictated his course of action. He turned quickly and went to take care of matters.

Roy stripped down to the skin, and immediately his alternate persona took over as Zuni slipped the custom made harness over his body. The long, thick tail was far too heavy for the customary butt plug, so the tail was attached to a jock strap like affair. The Private fiddled with the straps and buckles; making sure nothing was too tight, or chafed. He stroked the flank of the pony and fed him a granola treat and a drink of water. It was sure to be hot on stage, and he didn’t want the animal to become dehydrated by his exertions. After the pony had finished chewing the oat bar, Zunoski put the bridle on, making sure the bit was properly in place, and smoothed the sable mane down with a curry comb. The mitts for his hands and feet were last.

The transformation was complete—Roy no longer existed and in his place was a green colt, who was just settling into his training.

Baines had returned in time to watch most of the dress out, his heart swelled with pride at the way the three of them worked together, it had brought new level of trust between him and his two lovers. He quickly undressed and got into his own costume, tight riding pants, knee high boots, with celedon colored jockey silks, and a racing helmet to top off the outfit just for fun.

The trainer doubled checked the leather straps, and petted his pony on the cheek as he murmured encouragement in a soothing voice. The pony had styled himself after an Arabian; he was high spirited and shifted from hoof to hoof as they waited for the cue to go onstage. Baines attached a lunge line to the bridle, signaling to his beloved pet what the routine would be. The pony made motions like he would drop to all fours. "Nothing difficult baby, we’ll just run through a few exercises, show them how pretty you are."

They heard the announcement, and Zunoski handed Baines the training whip. "Break a leg, lover." He grinned and kissed Baines, and gave their pony a gentle slap. He lunged and sidled away from the contact, but Baines had him on a short lead and easily brought him under control.

The lights were bright, and thankfully obscured the audience from the view of the pony. It was just he and Baines, and they followed the same comforting routine as always. The lunge line was paid out, and Baines started him off with a walk to warm him up, then put him through his paces, a trot then a quick gallop around the stage. He slowed him down back to a walk with a voice command and quick flick of the whip. Baines was talking to him; encouraging words that made him want to do his best for his trainer.

Baines brought him to the center of the stage, which was dark but for the spotlight that bathed them hot, white light. The unseen audience clapped, and the pony became nervous. He sidled around bumped his trainer gently, getting his attention. Baines petted the pony and saw the sweat running into those dark green eyes. He wiped the sweat off his face and eyes, as he talked to the pony. "Think you want to try some of the dressage we’ve been practicing?"

The pony nodded, still shifting from foot to foot.

"Okay then." He gave the signal with his whip and the animal fell to all fours. It was new to them both the but the hand movements were definitive, and the pony understood what he was supposed to do. When cued, he walked forward, then backward, reared up on his hindquarters in a classic levade. Then Baines had the pony dip forward, and lift his hindquarters in the air- the opposite of the levade, holding the pose for the trainer to a count of ten.

It was a beautiful move, his forelegs supporting his weight, the muscles straining. Baines gave the pony permission to release the move, and he brought his rear down in a slow controlled movement.

Baines gave the pony a sugar cube—he could handle that with the bit in, and his willingness to perform a new movement without balking needed immediate reward.

The pony still could not see the audience, but he could hear their appreciation. He and Baines took a deep bow, and left the stage as the spotlight went down, and the house lights came up.

Zunoski was waiting in the wings with a soft towel to dry the sweat off Roy, and keep him from getting a chill in the air-conditioned wings. He went to remove the gear, but Roy shook his head, he wasn’t ready to leave the zone, He was still on the crest of his thrill, and he wanted to stay there.

Baines looked at Zunoski, and laughed. "Put the halter on, and take out the bit." He turned and spoke to Roy softly. "You want to go out there, meet your fans?"

Roy nodded. Nothing would make him happier.

★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

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