Author's Note: This fic features several characters from various nations of geekdom, specifically X-Men, Star Wars, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer. They're certainly not mine, but the rest of the boys are, so hands off :) Special appearance by Megan, reader of my fic and eater of my eyes (also giver of excellent gifts. My, the wonders I can create with Logan and Rogue action figures, even if they do have plastic chastity belts). Also thanks to the ladies and gents of the SA for a very brief loan of the Pink Poodle Man. He's out there.



A gentle breeze stirs the plants by the lagoon. Sunlight beams down pleasantly on my upturned face. I sigh and shift to lie on my stomach, the pool chair creaking under me. I know I've fallen asleep when I'm supposed to be cramming for my history test, but screw that. I haven't had a dream this nice in years.

A squelch above me makes me grin. Strong masculine hands begin to massage sunscreen along my back, curving over my shoulders, lifting my hair delicately away from my neck. "Thanks, honey," I murmur, glancing up at my visitor and blinking the sun out of my eyes.

I scramble to my feet. "Will? What the . . ."

The young---much too young---blond boy smirks at me. "Don't you remember, Dala?" He wears a white linen shirt unlaced by his throat, dark trousers, and brown leather boots: a ensemble that looks medieval. "You haven't worked with me for more than two years. I'm still stuck at fourteen!" Green eyes flashing in uncharacteristic fury, my good-natured Will slams the lotion bottle down.

I duck my head in shameful apology. "I'm sorry, Will, I haven't been inspired . . ."

"Bloody epic fantasy novel," he grumbles. "It's a lot shorter than you tell people it is."

"Not in my head," I argue. "I've got it all worked out, you know. And hey, didn't I use you and Lira for a short story last year? You were eighteen, as I recall . . ."

Instantly the young boy is replaced by an older and handsomer one, shoulders broader and muscles developed, dressed in silk finery. The anger leaves his eyes and he smiles, making my heart beat a little faster. No hero of my creation is ever less than gorgeous, after all.

"That's better," Will says, fingering the elegant sword strapped to his hip.

"What about me?" comes a plaintive voice. I turned to face Obi-wan Kenobi, not much older than Will. He crosses his arms over his chest and eyes me sternly. "You gave me Asaya and I've hardly had time to enjoy her."

I remember my sad attempt at a Star Wars fic---a Mary Sue, no less. "Uh, yeah," I stammer, trying not to stare at the cute-when-pissed Jedi. "That'll get done someday."

He snorts in obvious doubt of my abilities. "It will!" I insist.

"Sure it will." *Great*, I think in exasperation, spotting Angel to my left. His black duster is out of place in this tropical setting, but the only other image I can conjure is him without a shirt, and I don't trust my judgment around a naked Angel---hell, I don't trust it around a fully clothed Angel.

"What's your business?---not that I'm not happy to see you," I add hastily, since he could very well be without his soul. My head works in twisted ways, when it works at all.

Angel plucks a rose from a bush that wasn't there a minute ago. "You've always wanted to do a 'Buffy' piece---you're seen every episode a dozen times."

"Except for 'A New Man' and 'Superstar'," I correct. "I'm still kind of VCR-challenged." He just does that Angel thing that's halfway between a stone face and a smile, and I can feel that pulse shooting up the charts. It's just those brooding lips, that overhanging forehead . . .

"Try not to drool s'il vous plaît, chere."

"Remy?" The Cajun mutant grins at me. "What the fuck are *you* doing here? I'm a militant Rogue/Logan 'shipper, for chrissake!"

He scowls at the mention of my favorite pair. "Gambit know dat, chere, but you have a ting for him anyway, oui?" I nod dumbly. Always have, always will. "You're goin' to New Orleans this summer; you could do a fic for Gambit then, no?"

"That's the problem right there," I protest. "Sure I watched the cartoon religiously, but I've never picked up a comic and I can't write the way you talk! I had to go to a translator just for the bits of French in 'Instincts'!"

"You wouldn't have to do research for *me*." I close my eyes. Since I was five years old I've wanted to meet---hell, to *be* Han Solo. But now I just wish he'd go away.

"Han," I explain, trying very hard not to get sucked into those hazel eyes, "I can't write Han/Leia---I mean, you/Leia. I just can't do it."

"You've never really tried," he counters. Grabbing my strawberry daiquiri and taking a guzzle, he offers the lopsided grin that felled the better half of the galaxy. "C'mon, Dala, or I'll make you kiss a Wookiee."

Holy shit, if Chewie shows up I'm going to drown myself.

But the next speaker isn't a walking carpet or a Corellian smuggler or a centuries-old vampire. He's my own space pilot from my one real attempt at sci-fi. His name is Aron, and I made a point of writing him as devilishly good-looking. Now I have to sit down.

Aron runs a hand through his dark hair and glares at me. "And what about me? Poor Maggie's half in love with me already and dammit girl, I'm not a eunuch. If you don't write us a sex scene I'll go find someone who will."

"Sorry, Aron," I squeak. "Just be patient. You know you're one of my favorites---Maggie pretty much *is* me."

He smiles very slowly and winks at me, charm turned on full-blast. "I know."

"Stop that!" Holding onto your willpower in the presence of six very delicious men is not an easy task. I'm about to offer them a story about pink poodles and whipped cream, if that's what they want.

"I'm the one being short-changed here," a newcomer interrupts. "I appear to you in a dream, I throw a story into your lap, and you can't grant me more than two pages?"

I look over at the bearded redhead apologetically. "I think about you often, Peter. But my muse---"

"Sod the muse!" Aron shouts. "Forget these fantasy namby-pambies. Your future is in sci-fi."

Peter and Will turn to him, wearing twin expressions of contempt. I'm alarmed to see Will's hand at his sword hilt as he says softly, "What was that?"

"Hey!" I shout. "I don't like the level of testosterone here!" All of them ignore me. I sigh and start to step into the tightening ring of men, but a hand grabs me and pulls me back.

"Having a little trouble keeping them in line?" Megan surveys my boys with a raised eyebrow.

Nodding, I mutter, "This is what I get for an extended case of writer's block. Don't they understand how painful it is to not be able to put words to a page?"

She watches the argument with interest. "I know what you mean." Suddenly Megan frowns and turns back to me. "Why aren't there any girls?"

Suspicion enters my head for the first time. "I don't know. You'd think Lira or Gwen or someone would have . . . knock it off!" I stride over to the knot of males who are just about to really start something. Leave it to me to be fall in love with so many characters who are short-tempered and carry weapons---or are actually weapons themselves, I think, eyeing Remy and Angel.

Han speaks up. "We're tryin' to figure out where old Ben---"

"That's not my name!" Obi-wan exclaims. I don't have time to explain it to him.

"where the kid and me fit it, cause Star Wars is sci-fi, yeah, but it's got a mythic base and that's more like fantasy."

"You just don't like being outnumbered," Aron snaps, his glare fixed on Will now. The two young men are chest-to-chest in as puffed-up a display as I've ever seen. I slide between them, a full head shorter, and push them apart.

"Now now boys, get a hold of yourselves. I've got a question."

Remy takes my hand and raises it to his lips. "What is it, mon ami?"

I snatch my hand back and frown at him. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Gumbo. What Megan and I would like to know . . ." I nod at her and the men mimic my movements. Megan just gives her patented Evil Stare®.

"Where are all the women in my stories?"

They're embarrassed, that much is apparent. All seven look down at the sand and scuffle their feet.

"I'm waiting . . ."

Angel elbows Peter, and he coughs and says, "Well, we were sort of . . . delegated. To get you to work on our stories."

"You ought to work on mine only!" I look at Aron and think he's right; otherwise I'll forget to rid him of that arrogant streak.

The others start to shove forward again, voices raised. I'm pushed out of the circle and for the life of me, can't get back in. Finally Megan, with her wonderfully useful height, shoves us back into the center.

"Quit it, all of you!" she shouts. "Or I'll eat your eyeballs!"

This threat, unfamiliar to everyone but Angel, is strange enough to give them pause.

I point a finger at Han. "What with how the profic's been abusing you lately, I'm surprised you have something else to complain about." Embarrassed, he backs down, blaster still in hand. I whirl on Will. "You've got an entire fantasy world to play around in, a queen to love, and you actually live at the end, so shut up. Angel, there are millions of fan girls out there who pant and moan over you, and there's a reason for your town whore reputation. Remy, you'd just better be glad Logan's not here to tear the shit out of you." He looks rebellious, but stays silent. "Obi-wan, you're going to be too busy in Episode Two-spawned stories to be concerned about mine. Peter, you only gain a wife after her first husband is brutally murdered, so be happy I've given you anything at all. And Aron . . ." I pause. "Give Maggie some time. When I'm ready to write about it, your story will end happily." They're standing in a line now, silent, and I offer one more thing with a half-smile. "Now go back to your women and behave, or she really will eat your eyeballs." Megan nods solemnly.

There's silence for a few minutes, then Will inquires, "Can we go swimming now?" I turn, having forgotten about the deep lagoon pool at my back, and when I look back I'm treated to the sight of my boys in Speedos.

I grin. "Excellent. Last one in has to explain all this to your girls!" We all push forward to the water's edge.

~~~~~~~~

I wake up with a headache, but a smile on my face. Maybe now I can get some peace and concentrate on schoolwork.

I sit up and there's Logan, holding a copy of "Poems, Prayers and Promises" up to my nose. "We have unfinished business, darlin'."

I groan and pick up a pen.



(It was silly, wasn't it? But that's what it's like in my head most days. I've got more personalities than Rogue ever will. If anybody's terribly interested in my original works--yeah, that's gonna happen Dala--I just may get brave enough to post it on the Originals page. Someday.)