Seated on the edge of the chair in the manager's office, Malcolm's hands were resting on his knees, the tips of his fingers biting into his kneecaps painfully. His eyes were fixed on the rim of the desk in front of him, waiting for the manager to speak.

"Mr. Donovan…Malcolm."

"Just tell me already." The dancer snapped. "What's wrong? Is it my sister?"

"Your sister?"

Blood-shot pale blue eyes rose to the bearded man behind the desk. "You remember something about an absence because of a bone marrow transplant?" A look of startled understanding crossed Jamieson's face.

"My dear fellow, nothing has happened to your sister, if that was what you were so worried about!" He fumbled over the words, suddenly realising the hole he had dug himself into.

"How bloody considerate." Sitting back, half-slouching in the chair, Malcolm, folded his hands in the lap. "And don't call me your 'dear fellow'. I'm not a kid to be talked down to. Tell me what you want, so I can get out of here and go and see my sister."

"Actually, this is…rather important." Jamieson clearly did not like being talked to in that fashion and his expression said as much. "In fact, your position in this company actually depends on the decision you make here."

"Pardon me?"

"We have a…how can I put this? A situation that has arisen from the increasingly low numbers of attendees of this show." Malcolm slowly straightened in his seat, a suspicious feeling filling him. "Because of this, the heads of the company thought it would be wise to bring in some famous names."

"And one of them is going to be Misto…?" Malcolm guessed, flinching back in his seat.

Ignoring the question for that moment, Jamieson shuffled the papers on the desk. "As you may know," He said conversationally. "A couple of years ago, a video version of the show was released on video. The cast in it were…"

"I don't give a shit about a video!" On his feet, screaming with anger, Malcolm slammed his fist on the desk. "Are you giving my job to someone else?"

"Sit down please."

"Are you?"

"I asked you to sit down, Mr. Donovan." Jamieson's voice was crisp and cool, his hands folded on the desk. "If you wish to remain employed, I would advise you to take heed of what I am saying."

Reluctantly, Malcolm sank down in the seat he had occupied, staring down at the floor between his bare feet. "What's going on?" He asked, blinking fiercely to try and stop the tears that were threatening to fall.

"As I was saying, there was a video production of 'Cats' on world release, so the upper management believe that bringing in one or two of the cast members from it may benefit the profits of the show."

"And they chose Mistoffelees." The dancer's voice was a tremulous monotone.

Jamieson made no response to the statement, shuffling through some papers. "Joseph Brown has gained fame on Broadway and various other parts of the U.S.A., but he is most famous for his rendition of Mistoffelees in the video so we weren't about to let the chance to have him here pass us."

"In other words, its still all about the money."

Again, Jamieson ignored his words, laying the neatly re-neatened heap of papers on the desktop. "That is why I have asked you to come and see me, Malcolm. I've had a look at your C.V. and experience."

"And you gave some American ponce my bloody job, without even asking me."

The older man's pale grey eyes stared at him chillingly. "I am about to make you an offer that means you would still be first in line to understudy Mistoffelees when Brown arrives. If it is not to your liking, you are free to seek employment elsewhere."

"You can't cancel my contract!"

"Which is why I think you should listen to me, young man." Standing up, Jamieson glowered down at the dancer. Malcolm lowered his head again, staring at the front of the desk. "We have several openings to be filled, what with injuries and departures of several male cast members and swings."

"You what?"

Sitting back down, Jamieson leaned forward, giving what he hoped was a fatherly smile to the young dancer. "As you know, William Johnson had a serious fall last night and will be out of the show for some time."

"He plays Bill Bailey."

"Yes, and also understudies Mistoffelees and Mungojerrie."

"You can't be suggesting what I think you're suggesting…" Malcolm shook his head, pushing his chair back, his expression one of disgust. "I don't do cutesy kittens. I'm a dancer, not an acrobatic, nutty kitten."

"Your C.V. says that you are a capable gymnast, which fits the role of Bill Bailey and Mungojerrie and you have a strong enough singing voice, which is in the right vocal range for Mungojerrie." Jamieson skewered him with a cold look. "I suggest that you learn to do cutesy kittens pretty damn fast, or you'll be closely acquainting yourself with the walls of your dressing room for the next three months, after Brown arrives, because that's all you'll have a chance to see!"

"You're saying that I'll be the main Misto understudy, even if I don't do anything else for the rest of the shows? I just hang around to see if he wants to go on, then sod off home, because I have nothing to do and get no pay for it?"

Jamison's smile was cold and thin. "I think you are starting to see why it would be an advantage to listen to me."

"So what's the deal here?"

"There is a section in the contract that gives us the right to assign you roles that you would be able to play." Malcolm wanted to punch him in the mouth. "In signing your contract, you waived all rights of refusal, so you can either take the roles we offer, or remain as simply a Mistoffelees understudy, nothing more."

"Do I really have any choice at all in this?"

Jamieson's thin smile grew a fraction thinner. "Not really."

"But my main role will be Bill Bailey?"

"That's correct."

"And when will this be from?"

"Joseph Brown arrives next week and has been rehearsing with the Broadway cast, so he shouldn't be too out of practise." Jamieson replied. "There will be a week of rehearsal and then, you'll assume the role of Bill Bailey. Is this clear?"

"As crystal, Sir." Rising, Malcolm didn't shake the outstretched hand, rounding the chair and going straight to the door, his face obscured by the thick curtain of red and black hair.

Closing the door lightly behind him, he managed to stumble three paces down the hall, before a gulping sob tore through him. Sagging against the wall, he pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, sinking to his knees on the rough carpet.

"Hon?" From the other end of the hall, he saw Raymond rise from the seat he had taken, waiting for his return. "Hon, what is it?"

In less than three heartbeats, Raymond had tenderly gathered in his weeping lover in his arms, cradling him tenderly, and rocking him.

"Ray..." The younger dancer's lips sought out the elder's, claiming a demanding, punishing kiss, then pressed his face into the hollow of Raymond's neck, his whole body shaking with sobs. "They've taken my fuckin' job, Ray...they've taken it from me..."

"What?" The black dancer's voice was a low snarl. "Hon, what have they done?"

"Some git...from America...famous...they gave him my part...cos he's famous..." And held close to his lover's chest, he poured out the full story of what had happened in the office and how his favourite job in the world had been snatched from him.

***

"Those bastards!" Nicky Johnson had surprised everyone with his violent outburst. He kicked one of the chairs over, storming to and fro across the floor. "My brother's just out for a few weeks and they already reassign his damn job! Why the hell do they want an American tosser to come in as well? It just means more rehearsing for the rest of us for one bloody person!"

"What about Mal, though?" Tommy leaned across the gap between the chairs to squeeze Malcolm's knee. "Are you sure?"

"Tommy, I think the whole cryin' on my shoulder says it is."

"They want money." Malcolm's voice was a croak, his face still shielded by Raymond's chest and arms. "They don't care who has to be booted about. They just want a load of money and this guy...Jo," He spat the name vehemently. "Is a star. I'm not."

Raymond rocked the smaller dancer close to him. "Hon, do you want me to break his head? I could do that, y'know."

"No, Ray." Settling his head against his lover's shoulder, Malcolm released a sigh. "I guess I should just be grateful that I still have a job, huh?" He absently ran his fingers along the folds of Raymond's vest. "Apparently they have my costume already anyway…they told the costumers weeks ago, before I even knew…" He raised his eyes to his lover. "Ray…?"

"I'm comin' with you, sweetie." Helping the smaller dancer to rise, Raymond got to his feet. "Let's go and see what crappy outfit they're puttin' you into, hon."

***

"I hate this."

"I know you do, sweetie." Fastening the poppers on the shoulders of Malcolm's new Bill Bailey costume, Raymond ruffled the fluff. He turned his lover around to look him up and down. "You do look pretty cute in a different colour, though."

Malcolm looked at his reflection in the full-length mirror that stood against the wall, biting down on his lower lip so hard that he could taste blood. He wanted to grab his Mistoffelees costume from the hanger and pull that on. The new costume felt...wrong.

Looked it too. The mainly white unitard made his thin body look even thinner, the small spattering of patches of brown and grey the only thing that defined him as something other than a pure white kitten.

His first attempt at Bill Bailey make-up was still daubed on his face and he knew he was going to have to work with it. It looked so...boring. One big brown patch unartistically splattered over one eye wasn't his idea of make-up.

That would change soon, he knew. They could take the Goth out of the black and white costume, but they couldn't take the black and white costume out of the Goth.

"Why me, Ray? Why couldn't they bring in anyone but Misto?" He raised his hand to touch the fuzzies on his shoulders. The absence of the matt of black and white fluff on his chest made him feel bare, somehow.

He felt a large hand squeeze his shoulder gently. "Hon, you should feel flattered that they can give you another role. Hell, they've given you two more." Raymond turned him around gently, cupping Malcolm's thin face in his hands. "A lotta Mistos I've met can only dance, and most of 'em only do ballet." He claimed a quick kiss. "You've got talent."

"But they still got a big-time star in to replace me."

"It's only for a little while, hon." Accepting the brown and white wig from the wig mistress, the big dancer offered it to his partner. "Why not make the most of it and show the managers that they can go screw themselves?"

Positioning the wig carefully over his stocking cap, Malcolm nodded, turning to straighten it in the mirror. He scowled at his reflection, turning his body this way and that, to examine his body from every angle. "I really don't like this."

"You look cute, sweetie."

"That's the bloody problem." The dark scowl intensified, only making the kitten look all the more adorable and pouty.

Raymond stepped behind the smaller man, his arms wrapping around Malcolm's waist and drawing him back against his broad, bare chest. "You'll be great, hon." He murmured softly, as Malcolm leaned into the embrace.

"What next?" He sighed, after a few moments of silence.

"Your understudy Mungojerrie costume is ready for you to try on as well." The Senior Wardrobe Mistress was still finding it difficult to imagine the quiet young dancer playing anyone except the aloof Mistoffelees.

The Bill Bailey costume was dispatched disdainfully in a matter of minutes and the young Goth quickly pulled the brightly-coloured and patterned Mungojerrie costume on, adding the vest, socks and wig.

"Doesn't he just look adorable?" A throaty purr sounded from the doorway, both men turning to see Tommy standing there in full Grizabella regalia. Her new make-up design was exotic and strikingly beautiful, her pose provocative and sensual. "What do you think? Am I sex goddess yet?"

"Hon, you earned that title long ago." Raymond nodded approvingly. "Love what you've done with the make-up." He gave Malcolm a gentle nudge. "What about you, hon?"

"I feel stupid." Malcolm mumbled morosely. "I'm...colourful."

"Don't worry, sweets. At least you don't have to play Skimbleshanks." Tommy approached, draping an arm around Malcolm's shoulder and looking both of their reflections up and down with a nod. "We, my dear," She breathed huskily. "Are too damn beautiful." "And so modest." Raymond chuckled.

"But of course." Tommy flashed a sexy smile in his direction.

Malcolm tugged at his new vest, pulling a face. The Bill Bailey really didn't seem to fit with the vivid Mungojerrie make-up and costume and neither costume seemed to fit in with his favourite crow-styled make-up.

"Don't worry, kid." Tommy's arm around him tightened fractionally. "Just cos you feel you look stupid doesn't mean you look it." She lifted his face, examining her make-up. "And you get the chance to show little Johnson what real make-up should look like."

"But I don't want the colours."

"You don't have much choice, sweetie." Raymond murmured. "And you know, a little variety never hurt anyone."

Malcolm glared at the mirror. "Well, it might hurt the management," He said quietly, pulling off the wig and vest. "In the form of a baseball bat, my hand and the gravitational force that brings the two inexplicably together."

"That's the spirit!" Tommy said cheerfully, bending to press a kiss to his nose. "Ray, make sure if he does away with them, that he gets rids of the bodies as well."

"Count on it, sweets." The big dancer chuckled, as Tommy strolled away, whistling to herself.

***

"Hola people! What's the what here?"

"Hey, Roberto!" Antoine flashed a broad grin at the man who had just strutted into the rehearsal room. He had immediately caught every eye, raising one hand to casually brush back a loose lock of jet black hair. "Nice to see you back again."

The returning Tugger was as tall as Andy, if not an inch or two taller. His posture and attitude oozed pure Tugger-ness, his tanned, exotic-looking features split in a constant grin that often melted into a smirk.

Twenty-nine years old, Roberto Busco had understudied Tugger in one of the tours and had played the same role for six months in London, after being upgraded from one of the minor characters. A loose mop of wild curls hung around his face, impish brown eyes glittering with the promise of good humour.

"Well, well...all eyes on lil ol' me..." He fanned himself with a hand, his other hand pressed to his chest. "I'm so overcome! I might have to..." His eyes fixed on Tommy and she straightened up, a sensual smile on her lips. "Hell-oh momma!"

Spreading her hands at her sides, Tommy slowly pivoted herself around as if to look for the one he was eyeing, her body dipping enticingly, then looked back at him. Her voice was the husky purr she did so well. "Oh, you were talking about me?"

"Baby, I've been praying about you all my life!"

Slinking towards to him, she raised both hands, spreading them on his chest. Face-to-face, their noses nearly touching, both of them looking like they desperately wanted to grab the other in a lip-lock, Tommy whispered. "Keep prayin', Junior."

With a playful shove away from him, she flicked her tail up and strutted off with a coy look back at him.

"Momma always said do what the lady says." He gave her a wickedly sexy grin, prowling after her. "You got a nice...Holy place I can go into? Y'know, for religious purposes...purgin' myself of all the naughty thoughts I'm havin' right this second."

"Squirting out the crap filling your...head?" She gave him a flirtatious smile as he came up behind her, hands coming to rest on her hips and pulling her back against him. "Toilets third door on the left."

The rest of the cast members lounging around the rehearsal room started chuckling as the two exchanged genuine grins and broke apart. "Nice to see you again, Berto." Tommy reached up to hug him. "It's been a long time."

"You haven't changed a bit, you old fox, you." He kissed her warmly on the mouth. "Are you still sure I can't convince you to join us straight people?"

"What?" Tommy laughed. "And break the hearts of every lesbian and bisexual woman from here to...well, everywhere?"

"Ah, that wonderful modesty of yours, again." He slapped her on the rear, grinning at her. "You seem to have upgraded your role since the last time we were in this room together. What is it? Ten years ago already?"

"Feeling your age?" She cooed, scratching his chest.

"Tommy, you've gone from being Vicky, the innocent little kitten, to being my favourite slut-bomb." He sighed, shaking his head. "I can't help remembering the good old days when I was a psycho cat and you were white and silky."

"You were the weirdest Cori I ever saw." She agreed, laughing, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Not that that was a bad thing." They looked to the door as the last knot of people entered, lead by one of the managers.

"Oh crap." Roberto murmured under his breath. "Old man Jamieson is still here? He hasn't gone and died yet?"

"We can hope." Tommy replied, as Jamieson motioned the person behind him to join them. A small, delicate-looking dancer with a shock of blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes stepped up beside him, looking around with a too-perfect smile. "Oh God...they brought in a Mr. Apple Pie."

"Everybody, this is Joseph Brown, our new Mistoffelees from the video and Broadway." A muffled but very rude curse sounded from somewhere behind a large, black, male dancer, who was scowling at Jamieson.

"Hi." Looking around awkwardly, the perfect smile stayed in place.

"Well, since we've got all our newbies in, I guess this means we can get rehearsals going, then." Menke stood up from where he had been doing his stretches on the floor. He waited for Jamieson to leave, but the manager's eyes had come to rest elsewhere. Looking like a rabbit caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, Blue stared back at the manager. She took a nervous step back, her back meeting the bar that ran along the length of the wall beside the mirrors.

"Miss Spence." His voice coated with ice, Jamieson motioned her towards the door. "Perhaps I could have a word with you."

The young dancer shot a terrified, pleading look in Tommy's direction. The older dancer shrugged helplessly and Blue reluctantly followed the man out of the door, which closed quietly behind them.

Menke grimaced, then turned back to the group. "Well, we have three new arrivals."

"Four!" An indignant voice yelled from the back of the group.

Green eyes went wide with shock and the dancer stared at the group. "Oh, God, don't tell me they let you back in!"

"Only the best dancer the shows ever had." A sandy-haired man in his late twenties emerged from the group, grinning. "Didn't they warn you I'd be...Menke!" Caught in a tight hug, Philip yelped in protest. "I love you too, but the guys are watching!"

"You didn't tell me you'd be back, you daft git!" Menke laughed. "I knew they were desperate for swings, but I didn't figure they'd be this desperate!"

"Nice to be so welcome." Chuckling, Philip waved around at them. "Hi, all." Several people stared at him blankly. "For those of you who don't know who I am, I live with the two weird artist people. I date Annie, the short-haired, brunette one."

Suddenly, everyone but the new arrivals nodded and said a communal "Ah!".

"To think I imagined we might get a normal swing..." Antoine sighed miserably. "Why can't we even get one with a single brain cell?" He, too, rose from the floor, approaching the two other new arrivals. "So you'll be our new Etcetera and Misto."

"Uh, yeah." Joseph nodded.

The petite girl beside him smiled broadly. "I'm Steffi Collimore." She said. Maybe three inches taller than Blue, the dancer had the same wiry frame and pale blue eyes, but instead of short blue hair, she had a long braid of thick brown hair hanging down to her hips. "I guess I'm the screaming kitten?"

"Pretty much." Antoine chuckled. "Well, we have one ex-tour and ex-London guy to be our new Tugger." Roberto saluted with a fingertip. "He knows Tommy and I, so I'd suggest being very afraid. Another ex is our new swing man and he's as insane as our dear Menke," The black and silver-haired dancer tried to look offended. "But we're still on the look out for some more swings, especially after losing what? Five? Six? In a month." He counted off on his fingers. "Mara's permanently gone, Edward had a nervous breakdown, Tim's on tour, Andy," The tall dancer looked innocently around. "Is Munk, Marsha is still getting over the broken wrist and Lorna is still getting over bronchitis."

"Not to mention all the main cast...Kashka leaving, Will out of action, Mal re-cast, Blue and Andy upgraded, Gil gone." Tommy put in. "Gotta say that this is a whole lot of confusing and tiring not-fun."

Andy raised a hand. "Apparently auditions have been rung up for next week."

"And I've been offered a swing position." Menke added, grinning as Antoine's eyes bugged. "I thought you'd like that."

Antoine managed to utter a whimper. "Menke...you'd be understudying everything...you'd even be down for Carb..." A blinding grin crossed the older dancer's face. "Okay, I'm shutting up about that now...Steffi and Joseph, you're both new to this theatre, correct?"

"S'right." Steffi was looking around the room with interest.

"I've played Misto before." Joseph said. He looked very uncertain about the group around him, his confident grin wavering. "Video and Broadway."

Raymond stepped a little closer to Menke and Antoine. His voice was a low rumble. "Kid, when you've been in six international productions, I'll think about being impressed that you were in the video."

"You were in six?" Menke gave the black dancer a surprised look.

"Hon, I can still do the naming in German and French and whatever the hell that language was they made us try to do for some of the Asian tour." He grinned. "Still, nothin' like bein' a pussy in the original place."

Tommy rolled her eyes. "Ray, you're a great big pussy where ever you are anyway."

"Not to interrupt the conversation here, but we do have a lot of work to do, you guys." Antoine remarked, motioning them into the centre of the room. "We'll start with some of the bigger routines, until Blue gets back."

"Blue?" Steffi inquired. "That girl with the blue hair?"

Tommy nodded. "You'll find we're very literal people." She said. "That's why everyone just calls me Sex Goddess."

"You wish, sweetie." Raymond chuckled.

"Always, Ray." She replied with a smile.

***

"Where did you disappear off to, shorty?"

Blue didn't immediately answer her boyfriend, making her way across the floor between the dancers who had paused for a quick break. Sitting down in front of him, she slid between his knees and laid her head against his chest, pulling his arms around her body.

"Shorty? What is it?"

"I'm in trouble." She whispered. He tightened his grip on her when she spoke, her voice on the verge of tears.

"Why? What have you done?"

She nestled closer to him, rubbing his chest. "It's the first time Jamieson's seen me without a cap or anything on." He felt her breath against his skin and held her snugly against him. "He said I shouldn't have blue hair."

"Didn't he wonder why you were called Blue?"

"He didn't care...lectured me about looking professional...told me I have to change the colour back to the normal one..." Her hand rose to touch her familiar spiked hairstyle. "I don't want to change colours again...I like being Blue..."

"He can't make you change the colour, love."

She nodded, her fingers running up and down his chest. "He can't...but he can make my life hell if I don't do what he says...he is the boss..."

"One second, shorty." She nodded again. "Tommy!" From her stretches on the barre, the older dancer looked over curiously, then spotted the blue-haired figure in Andy's arms and crossed the floor, kneeling down beside the couple. "Are you in the mood for homicide?"

The oriental-looking dancer's eyes narrowed. "What did that son of a bitch do, kid?"

"Apparently he doesn't approve of Blue's hair colour."

"You what?"

"He said I have to get rid of it...but not in words like that." Tommy's hand rose, stroking through Blue's hair. The younger girl looked up at her. "I don't want to, Tommy...this is me. It's part of who I am now. Its how I became...stopped being Sara."

"He can't make you do anything, kid." Opening her arms, she let Blue move into her lap, cradling her and hugging her. "If he complains again, I'll ask him why Antoine gets to have his hair that bloody awful colour without complaint."

Blue touched Tommy's waist-length ponytail that was hanging over her right shoulder. "Maybe I should go skinhead for a while." She murmured pensively. "I wonder how the old fart would take that."

"Well, I for one, say that's a bad idea!" Andy protested. "I like your hair the way it is."

"There are other ways to protest...things that look worse than just having blue hair." Tommy remarked softly, a wicked smile on her face. She traced her fingertips from Blue's ear, to her nose stud, then down to her chest. "Remember those...things we found in Tunisia?"

The small dancer's eyes goggled. "Tommy! I couldn't wear anything like that!"

"Like...what?" Andy inquired warily, aware that anything that made Tommy grin like a Cheshire cat could only be bad.

"Chains." Tommy breathed dreamily. "All kinds of amazing chains and jewellery to join up every parts of the body..." Her eyes fluttered closed at the memory. Blue coughed. "Uh...I mean, there's this set that are like punk collars, with huge spikes on them...you wear them over your face and chest mainly. They look scary as hell on the right person, especially, if she's wearing her baby-punk black leather outfit with all the zips and studs..."

"I like that baby-punk outfit!" Blue exclaimed. "You make me sound like I don't like it."

"But not with the chest area unzipped and little chains connecting your nipple ring to your belly button ring being visible?" Blue flushed, covering her chest with one hand. "You're just to shy about showing off flesh."

"No, I'm just not a big slut."

"Tommy, how about you show up in all this scary clothing and show Jamieson that there are worse things than strange hair?" Andy suggested as the two women chuckled and exchanged embraces. "He's probably have a cardiac arrest."

"Or end up brain dead, because the blood'll go straight to his..."

"TOMMY!"

The black-haired dancer gave her roommate a sultry, vampish smile. "Trust me, sweetie, if I want to get Jamieson hot and bothered, I'll damn well do it." She murmured.

"That's what I was afraid of." Blue moaned.

***

The next morning, when they arrived for the second day of rehearsals with the new cast members, Jamieson was waiting at the door, a grim expression on his face. Tommy had expected it and sent Blue and Andy in first.

"Miss Spence."

Looking up from the sign-in form, Blue felt Andy's hand reassuringly squeeze hers. "Uh, yes, Mr. Jamieson?"

"I notice your hair is still that absurd colour."

"It's been this colour for five years, Mr. Jamieson. It's my trademark." Reaching into a rucksack on her back, she withdrew a sheaf of papers from her agent and held them out to him, hiding a smug grin. "My agent has it included as part of my contract." Sceptically, Jamieson took the leaf of papers, skimming through them. Blue held her breath, nervous. She had contacted her agent about it the night before and the woman, a close friend of both Tommy and Sylvie, had written some new terms into the small dancer's contract, e-mailing them to Blue first thing that morning.

"I still think you should show some kind of professional restrain in the way you look." He stated stiffly. "You are part of our company and thus, you should show people outwith our group that we are professional people."

Behind them the door buzzed open and Blue heard Andy choke back a snort of laughter. On the other side of the desk, Leo's eyes went wide, his mouth hanging open. Blue glanced up at the mirror on the wall opposite the door and saw Tommy sliding out of her jacket.

"It's warm in here." The older dancer drawled huskily, catching Jamieson's attention for the first time. Like Leo, his eyes seemed to double in size at the sight of Tommy wearing nothing but a strip of a leather skirt and a pattern of delicate chains that barely concealed any of her upper body.

"Miss Bennett," He asked faintly. "What is that?"

"This?" Tommy looked down, spreading her arms. "Do you like it? I thought it was a bargain and its actually quite comfortable." She jiggled her upper body with a smile. "And the chains actually hold me in place really well, see?"

"I don't think that it is really appropriate." He mumbled.

"But I've got the skirt to match it at home!" She stroked her hand down the leather one, then sighed. "It was a bit rusty around the crotch, because I forgot to dry it last time I wore it, but I was going to wear it tomorrow."

Jamieson goggled at her. "Miss Bennett!"

"You mean you don't like it?" She gave him a miserable look, convincingly filling her eyes with tears. "But it's my favourite outfit! I think it's so pretty!"

"It-it is pretty, but it's...ah...rather revealing."

"S'my body. I dont care who sees it."

"But there may be young people out there, after the show!" He protested. "We cannot allow them to be open to such...uh...lewdness."

"If your excuse it that kids might see us and be badly influenced by what we wear or what colour our hair is, you're talking bullshit." Tommy said smoothly, brushing her loose hair back from her face. She smiled. "Blue always has her hair covered so you can't claim anything there. You let her keep her hair like that on her, my and her agents wishes, or everybody gets to see a whole lot more of Tommy girl."

Jamieson's face went through a spectrum of colours, from white, to grey to red, before he huffed in indignation, thrust the sheaf of papers back into Blue's hands and storming away up the stairs.

"Way to go, Tommy!" Andy hooted, giving her once over look.

"Nice outfit, Tom." Leo drawled.

Andy looked at him. "You think that's bad, you should see her naked." Leo looked at her speculatively, grinning.

"Don't even go there!" Tommy held up a hand. She snatched the pen and scrawled her name on the sheet of paper. "Can we just get somewhere warmer, please? My nipples are getting chaffed down here."

"Didn't need to know that." Blue chuckled, bounding over to the lift, Tommy following, grousing about the metal against her breasts.

***

"How goes?"

Joseph was sitting on the floor in the warm up room, stretched over his right leg that was extended in front of him. His chin resting on his knee, he raised his eyes to the dancer standing over him. "Uh...okay, I guess." He changed legs. "Who're you?"

"Malcolm."

"And you play?"

There was a pause, the pale blue eyes staring down at him. "Mistoffelees."

"You're my understudy? Nice to meet you, buddy."

"No, I was Mistoffelees." Malcolm replied quietly. "You took my job, 'buddy'."

Sitting up, Joseph frowned. "That can't be right." He got to his feet, shaking his ankles. "They told me they had a vacancy for a Mistoffelees coming up soon. That's why they got in touch with me."

"Well, they didn't." Malcolm gazed down at the other dancer. Joseph was barely inches over five feet tall and Malcolm was at least six inches taller than him. "I was told I was changing to play Bill Bailey, because they had someone coming in to play Misto. It was a choice of him or being fired."

"Man," A pained look crossed Joseph's youthful face. "I'm sorry. I didn't know that was what was goin' on."

A half-smile reached Malcolm's lips. "They wouldn't tell you that they were threatening to fire someone, to get you over here." He remarked. He held out a hand, which Joseph shook with an apologetic grin.

"I'm sure you were a great Misto, and everything."

"I s'pose."

"Pity you don't get the recognition for being in the video, like I do." The blonde's smile was guileless, his blue eyes twinkling. "It was the most amazing cast to work with...the best dancers in the world."

"Yeah?"

"I was their first choice for Misto. Cool, huh?" He grinned boyishly. "Were you asked?"

Malcolm tried to keep a smile on his face, but it was a struggle. "I only joined the show five months ago, so they didn't know about me."

"Oh." Still, Joseph grinned. "You probably haven't got to my standard yet."

His own painful grin locked in place, Malcolm gritted out between clenched teeth. "Excuse me for a second."

Raymond was washing his hands at the sinks in the toilets when Malcolm stalked in, slamming the door behind him, hard. Walking up to the wall, he smiled tightly at his boyfriend, and then started smacking his head off the tiles.

"Hon," Hurrying over, Raymond hauled him back. "That might not be the best thing to do. You don't wanna damage that pretty head of yours."

Malcolm gave him a bitter look. "You never know." He muttered, his forehead a blossoming pink colour. "If I kill a few brain cells, let my hair go back to blonde and look as thick as a brick, I might actually be 'up to his standard'."

"Is this about Jo?"

"Noooooooo." Drawing out the word, giving Raymond a sarcastic look, Malcolm cocked his head, raising his brows. "What gave you that idea?"

Raymond hugged his lover gently. "Hon, ignore it. He'll be gone in a few months and until then, Alonzo ain't gonna go near that prancin' little ballerina." He pressed a fierce kiss to Malcolm's lips. "You're way better as Misto than he could ever be." He kissed him again, pressing him back against the wall. "Way hotter, as well."

"Like I couldn't tell you that, blindfolded." Malcolm growled, pulling Raymond's mouth back to his, neither of them breaking apart or looking around when the door squeaked open to let the dainty blond dancer in.

"Guys!" Josph's shrill voice protested. "Get a room."

Malcolm's slender hands, spread on Raymond's broad, bare, muscled back, moved of their own accord, the middle fingers of both hands rising to pay a derisive salute to the smaller dancer in the doorway.

"Uh...okay..." The door closed quickly.

"What did you do, hon?" Raymond panted, breaking out of the kiss to look down at Malcolm.

The black- and red-haired dancer gave him a cute smile. "A little bird or two told him that we were busy." He replied, his eyes glinting with mischief. A deep chuckle rumbled through Raymond as he met his lover's lips with his own again.

***

A topless dancer walked across the middle of the rehearsal room, massaging her breasts and muttering curses under her breath. Several male members of cast looked on with curiousity and approval.

"What's up, gorgeous?" John Marquez drawled, approaching, but making certain to stay out of arm's reach of her.

"Chain mail doesn't do much good for the nips. Six days since I wore the bloody stuff and its still chapped." Tommy reached into a rucksack on the floor, withdrawing a pot of vaseline and rubbing it liberally over her chaffed breasts.

"Need a hand to apply that?"

"Get a life, John."

He gave her a rakish grin, holding out a hand. "You know you wanna let me help, gorgeous."

"What part of get a life didn't you understand?" The tall dancer snapped, whirling around to glare at him. After a week of rehearsals before the evening shows, the stress was beginning to show on the cast members.

"C'mon, beautiful, just one little dab?" He grinned broadly, then staggered back a step in astonishment, when her hand connected with his face. The slap rang out like a pistol-crack in the room, the accoustics bringing it back ten times louder.

"Get a life." She repeated coldly, storming away.

Fingering his scarlet cheek, he watched her go. "I guess I deserved that one." He said to anyone who happened to be listening. As attention drifted, he, too, exited the room, disappearing away to his dressing room.

Several people noticed him go, including Menke and Miranda Clyde-Dunlop, who played Jellylorum. "Randa," Menke approached her, concern written on his face. "Do you know if something's up with John?"

"I'm not sure, but normally, he'd never go anywhere near that far to annoy Tommy."

"That's what I thought." Menke rubbed his chin pensively. He was going to follow, when a small, flustered-looking blond dancer hurried into the room, straight towards him. He groaned, recognising Joseph. "Morning, Jo."

"Menke, aren't rehearsals meant to be starting?"

"We're still waiting for a few people to arrive." He replied, motioning around the room at the dancers. "Everyone else is getting warmed up."

"Malcolm and Ray are making out in the bathroom! Shouldn't they be warming up too?"

Menke massaged his temples with forefinger and thumb. "Not again." He chuckled, shaking his head. "Berto?" The black-haired dancer looked over from his position by the barre. "You mind going and breaking up Ray and Mal?"

"Again?"

"You're the biggest guy around here. If anyone can pull Ray off Goth-boy, it's you."

Grousing as he sloped out of the door, Roberto disappeared towards the toilets where the two dancers were getting...acquainted.

"You ready for your first night on Monday?" Menke turned his attention back to the small dancer, who had started re-stretching in front of him.

"I guess so! Its not like I haven't been a cat before."

A faint grin crossed Menke's face. "You and me both." He muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing important." Menke smirked, clapping the small dancer on the back. "Finish your warm-ups and we'll get this rehearsal out the way, before this evenings show." He sighed with relief. "No rehearsals tomorrow, remember, cos we've got the two shows."

"What do I do?"

"Whatever you like, kid." Menke moved off towards the returned Raymond and Malcolm, who were looking flushed and sheepish, but smug.

***

"Has Wonder Boy gone?" Malcolm looked up at Menke, his Mistoffelees make-up as impeccable as ever.

"He wasn't in today." The taller dancer replied, adjusting his black warmers. "I told him he didn't need to come in today, because we would be too busy to rehearse with both the shows to do and everything."

"So he didn't find a brain cell in that pretty head of his and die of shock? Damn shame."

Menke raised a brow. "Still bitter about having your job taken?"

"I just can't imagine what gave you that idea, genius." Malcolm muttered under his breath, fastening the poppers of his shoulders. The taller dancer gave him a rueful smile. "What?"

"There's a worse thing than having your job taken from you, you know?"

Adjusting his warmers on his arms, Malcolm raised a brow skeptically. "Is this where you tell me that you once lost out in a role, but soething wonderful happened after it?"

"No," Menke leaned against the back of a chair behind him, looking the Goth in the eyes, his expression serious. "This is when I tell you that I almost lost the person who I love more than my own life. That is far worse than losing a job." He grinned faintly. "Almost got myself killed as well, which isn't something I'd recommend, but there is always something worse than losing a job. Just remember that there will always be another job."

"Oh."

"Oh? Is that it?" Menke pulled a pained expression onto his face. "After I bare my soul to you, all you say is 'Oh'?" He sniffed, hiding his face behind a warmer. "You've just gone and broken my heart, Mal! I thought we had something special going on!"

"Shaddup, you big loon." The smaller dancer couldn't hide a smile. "You're a weird guy, y'know, Menke."

"It has been mentioned on occasion, but I'm not the one that usually walks around looking like I walked into railings that have just been painted black." He gave the Goth a smug grin. "I don't care if it's from a film, but I still look better with stripes than you do."

"You...er...there is a spontaneous, witty retort to that...just give me some time to find it."

Licking his finger, Menke made a one-up sign and prowled off towards the main area, a wide grin on his face. Nearly five minutes passed before Malcolm's brow smoothed out and he ran after the taller dancer.

"I found it!" He yelled. "Menke! I have my witty come-back!"

"Oh yeah?" Menke's head poked out of a dressing room, his eyes sparkling.

Malcolm drew a deep breath, his expression determined, and pointed at him. "Poot!"

Menke stared at him in disbelief, then, slow but surely, a grin broke onto the big dancer's face and he started to laugh. "No matter what they say about you, Mal," He clapped the Goth on the shoulder. "You're a very funny guy."

Looping his arm through Menke's, he inclined his head to look at the bigger dancer. "Shall we dance?" He asked in a prim voice.

"Are ye askin'?" Menke snickered, recalling the last time he had used words similar to those: his first date with his wife, so many months before.

"Ah'm askin', mah big stripy luv!"

"Then Ah'm dancin', mah wee fuzzy luv!"

Behind them, as they skipped towards the stairs, singing a corrupted version of a classic Disney song, Tommy and Raymond exchanged glances. "I'm pretty sure that we don't want to know what just happened." She said.

"Agreed." Raymond nodded.

"At least I'm not dating one of them." She added with a sly grin at him.

Raymond raised a brow. "Tommy, hon, you saw nothin'. We saw nothin'. Nothin' happened here and everythin' is normal and good."

"Okay!" Looping her arm through his, she dragged him along as she skipped and started to sing as well. "Hi-ho, hi-ho, its on the stage we go! We'll grab that prick, hit him with a brick! Hi-ho! Hi-ho, hi-ho, hi-ho!"

Raymond whimpered. "I wanna go home."

Tommy just laughed.

***

"Okay, what's going on here?"

The intermission had arrived during the matinee and several people were more than a fraction surprised to find John Marquez – wigless – sitting in the social space, when he should be donning his Growltiger garb.

More surprising was the fact that he had an open bottle of whisky in his hands and tears pouring down his face.

"Okay, old man," Squeezing past her companions, Tommy slinked over to him and sat down on his lap, taking the bottle from his hands and looping his arms around her. "You get to have a fondle of the Tommy-girl." She lifted his face with her fingertips. "You gonna tell me what's up?"

"Apart from the obvious?" He tried to smile, but it didn't reach his lips and Tommy sighed, gently embracing him as he buried his face in her shoulder, sobbing. "Sorry, Tom," He choked softly. "They had to call in the relief…I can't go back on."

"Why not, hon?"

"One, I'm pissed as a skunk." He gave her a faint smile. "Two, my old mum…" A choking sob escaped him and he hugged her tightly. "She had a stroke last night…they said she was gonna be okay…she wasn't…they just called…"

"Oh Christ…" Pressing kisses to his brow, Tommy hugged him tightly. "John, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

His arms around the red-garbed dancer, he gave her a sorrowful smile, his head resting against her fuzzy shoulder. "She was old, Tom. Maybe she won't be hurting anymore… and she'll be back with dad."

"That's the nice way to look at it, hon." She whispered, stroking her fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. "What're you gonna do?"

He shrugged, closing his eyes, pulling her a little closer to his body. "I'm gonna get changed and my partner should be here in a few minutes." Tommy nodded, her chin resting on the top of his head. "We'll go to the hospital from there."

"I'm stayin' with you until I know there's someone else to look after you, hon."

Reaching up, he brought her mouth down lightly to his and touched a chaste kiss to her lips. "Thank you, Tom." Nestling against her, he remained there, her body pressed against his until the door opened allowing a non-crew member in.

"Jonny?" The huge man standing there looked like he could be a professional rugby player. John steered Tommy from his lap and rose, the big man crossing the floor and hugging him tightly against the barrel-like chest. "Love, I'm sorry."

John nodded, receiving a tender kiss from the immense man, then pressed against the wide chest again, his eyes closed. "Tommy," He murmured, looking at her from beneath hooded lids. "I never told you I was gay, did I?"

Seeing Tommy being gobsmacked was one of those occasions that – again – Andy wished he took a camera to work with him.