Just a bit of fun :). As always, though, reviews are greatly appreciated...hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Holby City or any of the characters.

'You', Michael declared as he leaned conspiratorially across the tiny table, 'have been single for far too long'.

Serena Campbell blinked, and reached for his wine glass, holding it up to inspect it. Of course, it was empty. When she picked the bottle up in the other hand, she realised that that, too, was almost finished, and she raised her eyebrows pointedly at her companion. Even he would not have dared to make such a comment if he hadn't been well on the way to tipsy, but he raised his hands in a gesture of self-defence.

'Not entirely my fault'.

She glanced at her own wine glass, and shrugged. Fair point.

'And', he continued, a smug grin on his face, 'I am very good at holding my alcohol. Better than you, in fact. So since you are holding both the bottle and my glass, you could pour me another one. And then answer my question'.

Serena struggled not to roll her eyes.

'There's not even another one left in the bottle. And you didn't actually ask me a question to answer'.

'Then I will go and get us another one, and I will think of a way to rephrase my...statement, in such a way that it has a question mark on the end'. With that, Michael pushed himself to his feet and sauntered, reasonably steadily, over to the bar.

Serena leaned back in her chair and smiled to herself, shaking her head. Michael Spence was irrepressible. He was funny, annoying, kind, and frustrating all at the same time. And, although she would dispute his claim to be able to drink her under the table, he was one of the very few people at Holby City Hospital that she would call her friend.

That friendship, however, did not extend to discussing the non-existent ins and outs of her love life. She only hoped that having to go and get another bottle of wine had distracted him enough that he would forget all about it by the time he came back.

No such luck.

'So'. He had settled back down in his seat and poured both of them another one. 'When was the last time you slept with anyone?'

'Excuse me?' Serena almost choked on her wine, and it had nothing to do with the fact that it was cabernet sauvignon rather than shiraz.

'You know, a roll in the hay. Beast with two backs'. Serena opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a finger. 'And you cannot deny that that was a question'.

'I wasn't going to deny it', Serena retorted. 'I was going to say that it isn't a question that I'm going to dignify with an answer'.

Michael looked puzzled for a moment, as if he was trying to work out exactly what she had said, before his expression cleared.

'Ok then. We'll make it slightly easier. When was the last time you went on a date?'

'Michael!'

He winced as she kicked him under the table.

'Hey, I'm just trying to help!'

'Do you really think I need it?'

'Yeah, I do. You're here with me on a Friday night in Albie's when everyone else has gone home'.

'Is there something wrong with that? And besides...' Serena folded her arms. 'When was the last time you either slept with someone or went on a date?'

Uh-oh. That hadn't been the best idea. Michael grinned like the cat that got the cream and took a deep breath, as if preparing himself for a long monologue of recent conquests, but was cut short by Serena sticking her fingers in her ears.

'Forget I asked. I don't want to know'.

He looked disappointed, but shrugged and took another mouthful of wine. She could see him talking as he put the glass down, but couldn't make out what he was saying until he reached over and took hold of her wrists, pulling her fingers out from her ears.

'...attractive, smart...you could have your pick'.

Serena raised her eyebrows again. Had he just been talking about her?

'You mean cynical, argumentative, power-crazy and the wrong side of forty, surely'.

Michael considered for a moment, and then nodded. 'That too. But usually, with most men, the attractiveness and the sense of humour is enough to cancel out that stuff. At least for the first couple of dates'.

'Great'. Serena huffed. 'So I'm doomed to a lifetime of two-date relationships. You know, I think I'm fine as I am'.

'No, you're not'.

'Michael...' Serena paused. She couldn't believe that she was actually having this conversation in Albie's, with Michael Spence. Of all the people to be talking about this with...'I have no time to date anyone. I have a teenage daughter who would give anyone I brought home hell, and now, it seems, I have to work with my ex. Dating is the last thing on my mind'.

'Exactly!' Michael looked triumphant. 'All the more reason to get back out there'. He paused to think, ignoring Serena's frustrated expression. 'I know! A dating profile'.

'A what?'

But Michael was already reaching into his shirt pocket for a pen.

'You got any paper on you?'

'That depends on what it's going to be used for'. Serena gave him the glare that she normally reserved for Arthur Digby, but it didn't even seem to register. She could only watch in a kind of horrified fascination as he pulled a paper napkin towards him and yanked the top off the pen with his teeth.

'Right, so here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna draw up a list of what you want in a guy, what you don't want, and then we're gonna figure out a list of people that fit that profile, and...'

Enough.

'No'.

It was a tone of voice that should have rendered further discussion pointless, but Michael didn't seem to hear her.

'...then we can get you out on some dates, get you back into the swing of things, and then...well, you can thank me later'.

'Michael'. Serena clamped a hand over the napkin. 'No'.

'Aw, come on, Rena! Just a bit of fun'.

'Don't call me that'. But the complaint was reflexive, and Michael smiled. Only he and her mother had ever called her that - no one else would have dared. And, somehow, they both seemed to get away with it.

Maybe she had drunk more wine than she thought she had. But she found herself shrugging, and lifting her hand from the napkin. It might be a laugh, at least. And she knew Michael well enough to be sure that, if she threatened and bribed him enough, he would keep his subsequent teasing between the two of them.

Michael looked jubilant as he put pen to paper.

'Right, so...needs to be someone from a hospital'.

And he scribbled down doctor / nurse / paramedic /porter.

'Hey!' Serena pointed indignantly. 'Why does it have to be someone from a hospital?'

'Because', Michael explained as if talking to a slow child, 'you never socialise. You work here, you go to the odd conference at St James's and then you go home. I'm only guessing that you have the odd exciting trip to the supermarket in between. So unless you're going to date the checkout guy in Sainsbury's, it would have to be someone who works at a hospital'.

Serena hated to admit it, but he did have a point.

'Okay', she grudgingly conceded. 'But can we at least scrap the porter?'

'What's wrong with the porters?' He chuckled as he saw her look. 'Okay. No porters'. A heavy blue line went through the word on the napkin. 'And maybe not a paramedic either'. Another cross-through.

'And not a nurse'.

'Wow. Not fussy, are you?'

'In case you hadn't noticed, most nurses are female'.

Michael raised his eyebrows. 'I wasn't aware that we were discriminating on the grounds of sex here'.

'Michael!'

'What? It's a valid point'.

'I thought we were doing this for me, not for you to indulge some...' She struggled for the right words. 'Some typical male fantasy!'

'Ok, ok'. He was laughing. 'So not a nurse, either. Although that does mean that you're ruling out Nurse Maconie without even fair consideration...And it leaves us with doctors'. He looked up at her. 'Half of whom are female'.

'Which means that the other half are of the masculine variety'.

'Ok, so male doctors'.

'No anaesthetists'.

Michael opened his mouth, as if intending to ask her what she had against anaesthetists, when he obviously thought better of it. He was just writing it down as best he could on the napkin, when Serena, now thinking hard, spoke again.

'Not short'.

'Pardon me?'

'I don't like men shorter than me'.

Michael shrugged, and wrote tall down next to man doctor - not a gasser.

'Any other...uh...physical attributes?'

'Dark hair. I don't like blonds or balds. And at least some kind of obvious attempt to keep in shape. I don't much like flab, either'.

Michael looked askance. 'Think you've ruled out most of Holby already'.

'And my age, or thereabouts. Tempting as the idea of a toyboy is, I don't think it would really work in practice. Too much energy, I'm not sure I could keep up...'

Michael held up a hand.

'Enough'. He shook his head. 'You've just put every single doctor in Holby out of the game. Even the married ones'.

Serena smirked at him. She had definitely had too much wine.

'Not all'.

'I am not volunteering'.

'Did I mention no Americans?'

Michael pretended to ignore her.

'So moving on from the physical side of things...you need someone smart'.

'I do'.

On that, at least, they agreed.

'Probably at least a consultant'.

'At least. And with a sense of humour'. Serena grimaced as she took another mouthful of wine. 'And someone who drinks shiraz'.

'Funny, able to hold copious amounts of alcohol, and ability to withstand serious temper tantrums'. Michael was speaking aloud as he was writing, and the last one his list earned him another kick on the shin.

He ignored it, but fell silent and stared at the napkin for a moment, as if completely stumped.

'You know...' His words were slow, considered, and Serena frowned.

'Why do I not like the sound of this?'

'You do know who's left, don't you?'

Serena looked at him blankly. 'Surprise me'.

'The Swede'.

Serena almost spat out her mouthful of wine.

'What, Hanssen?' she gasped through her laughter. 'You are not being serious'.

But the look on Michael's face was the most serious it had been all night, and he held out the napkin, pointing to each criterion as he went down the list.

'Male, as far as anyone knows. A doctor, a consultant, and director of surgery, no less. Never gassed anyone in his life. He does sort of have a sense of humour, I think...Dark hair, definitely not flabby, probably slightly older than you and very, very tall'.

'Michael...' Serena was having trouble swallowing her slightly hysterical giggles. 'If this is what you've come up with then I think it's time we called it a night'.

And, now that she looked closely, she could see the corners of Michael's mouth beginning to twitch as well.

'Yeah, maybe you're right. Not a good match'.

'Definitely not'.

But it was a while before their laughter died down enough for them to even think about leaving, and then Michael pointed out that they had the rest of the bottle to finish. It was another glass and several more unsuitable matches later when Serena finally reached for her coat and, seeing Michael pick up the napkin, she held out her hand.

'Oh no you don't. That is coming home with me'. He reluctantly handed it over, and she shoved it into her jacket pocket. 'And if anyone else so much as hears a Chinese whisper of what we were talking about tonight...'

'Yeah, yeah, you'll have my balls on toast, I know'.

'And I will also tell Hanssen that you were trying to matchmake him'.

'You wouldn't'. Michael suddenly looked slightly worried. 'Okay. I swear my lips are sealed'.

Serena was still chuckling to herself as she climbed into the taxi. She would never have admitted it to Michael, but she actually hadn't laughed so much in ages.

Henrik Hanssen.

Dear God.

She placed a hand over her mouth to smother her giggles as she gazed out of the window. Granted, she could see where Michael had been coming from. The cold, aloof Director of Surgery was technically everything that she had said she wanted. Dark haired, slim, tall - although when she had specified tall, she didn't mean that she wanted to have to crane her neck just to talk to the guy. Flashes of a sense of humour were indeed appearing more and more often and, lately, she had also seen faint cracks of vulnerability that suggested he was at least part human and not one hundred percent cyborg. And he was certainly a worthy sparring partner - life was never boring with him around.

There was just one minor snag.

He didn't like her.

And, she reminded herself, she didn't much like him either, which technically made two problems. Two insurmountable problems that she had no intention of ever trying to find a solution to.

It wasn't until later, having flushed the napkin safely down the toilet, that Serena climbed into bed in her pyjamas and began to wonder what it might really be like to have someone on the empty side of the bed.

Someone to talk to. Someone who would understand the horrendous hours that she often kept and who wouldn't be scared off by her occasionally terrible temper. Someone to share all those bottles of shiraz with.

Someone with dark hair and dark eyes.

Someone, she thought as she drifted off into sleep, to kiss goodnight.

She wouldn't even mind standing on tiptoe to do it.