Author's Note: Videos for characters canon and original, can be found on my Youtube channel via the link on my profile.

'Only a dream, I think, waking to the sound of nothing. Not nothing. I heard: it was a beach, or shore, and someone far off, walking. Nowhere familiar. Somewhere I've been before. It always takes a long time to decipher where you are.'

Margaret Atwood

Throw Roses In The Rain

Before

"Why, Miss. Jones, you're… beautiful!"

Cassandra coldly and deliberately finished cleaning her gold rimmed spectacles, using the cuff of her blouse to wipe each lens meticulously clean, before perching them again on the bridge of her nose. Then and only then, did she deign to favour the interloper with her attention. "Excuse me, do I know you?" she said icily, assessing him with narrowed blue eyes.

"Strangers are just friends who haven't met yet, sweetheart," the interloper said smartly, taking a seat on the bar stool beside hers, beckoning the bartender over as he did.

"Didn't your mother teach you not to talk to strangers?" Cassandra said scathingly, hurriedly pulling down her pencil skirt as the interloper cast her bare legs a sidelong glance, the hem having ridden up her thighs for the umpteenth time, Cassandra struggling to stay balanced atop her bar stool ever since she'd sat down.

The interloper finally dragged his gaze back up to her furious face. "Yeah, but I like to live on the wild side," he replied with a wink. "A cold beer for me and another of whatever she's having…" he said to the bartender, his voice trailing off as he frowned at Cassandra's glass. "What is that?" he asked, squinting at the clear liquid, then at Cassandra. "Water?" he then guessed. "Lemonade maybe? Or is that too far out for you?"

"Vodka," Cassandra said abruptly, "straight."

"Really?"

"Want to taste it to make sure, flyboy?"

The interloper looked at her for a long moment. "No, I believe you," he then drawled before turning to the bartender. "One vodka, then, please, my good man."

"Whatever," the bartender said sourly, before stalking off.

"Whoa, he's a barrel of laughs," the interloper said, somewhat taken aback. "A true kindred spirit there."

"Whatever," Cassandra echoed, before knocking back the rest of her drink in one go, only to immediately start spluttering when it went down the wrong way, burning the back of her throat as it did.

The interloper hurriedly poured her a glass of water from the jug next to him. "Jeesh," he said, sliding it across the counter to her, "maybe you should sit the next vodka out."

Eyes watering, Cassandra downed the water with alarming speed, before frantically signalling for a second, and then a third glass, the interloper obliging with alarming alacrity. By the time she could breathe again, the interloper had downed the vodka he'd ordered for her, and was now calmly sipping his beer whilst watching her with amused grey eyes.

"Thank you," Cassandra croaked, "but I can pour my own water, just so you know."

"From where I was standing, you looked a little busy."

"Sitting, actually," Cassandra corrected him with some difficulty. "You're sitting down."

The interloper raised his eyebrows, amused. "Okay, from where I'm sitting, then," he amended. "But anyways… to get back to the matter at hand," he then said, leaning his elbow on the counter before assuming a mock philosophical pose, "the big question that's bothering me is, what's a girl like you doing in a place like this?"

Cassandra glanced down at her white blouse and the prissy pencil skirt now restored to its respectable length, suddenly seeing herself through the stranger's eyes, making her feel oddly exposed and vulnerable. The picture she presented was almost worthy of Vettriano, the prim female out of place, the unsuitable suitor by her side. What would her sisters say if they knew their sweet little Cassie was downing vodka in a dive bar? Karen would freak out right away, whilst Claire would take a couple of days to get there, her career obsessing her to the exclusion of all else.

Scowling, she looked up, only to catch the interloper staring at her at her strangely, the expression in his eyes almost oddly awed. "What is it?" she said defensively, something about him starting to set her on edge.

"Just thinking you're the prettiest damn thing I've ever seen in my life."

"Yeah, right," Cassandra scoffed. "Somebody here needs specs and it's certainly not me."

The interloper cleared his throat, Cassandra not sure if he was amused or annoyed. "Well, I bet you're blessed with brains as well as beauty," he then continued, apparently unperturbed. "What do you do to make ends meet? Something highflying I'm thinking."

"Keep thinking, flyboy."

"C'mon, I'm on the edge of my seat here," the interloper grinned, making her suddenly realise he was actually quite handsome, the knowledge disconcerting her even further. "Show me a little mercy, huh?"

Cassandra rolled her eyes. "I'm… I'm a secretary," she said abruptly. "A company secretary to be precise."

"Well, I should have worked that out for myself from looking at you, sweetheart," the interloper said, straightening up, "but it still doesn't tell me what you're doing in this dump."

"What's it to you, flyboy?"

"By the way, I'm not a pilot, I'm in the Navy. Or I was, until very recently, actually."

Cassandra's gaze fell upon the dog-tags hanging around his neck, before drifting across his broad shoulders, only to realise too late what she was doing, making her hurriedly look away. "How so?" she then said, eyes narrowing behind her spectacles again.

"I got… headhunted," the interloper said carefully, "so I switched up careers."

"Meaning?"

"Let's just say I'm landlocked now."

"Doing what?"

"What do you care, Miss. Jones?"

"Do I look like I care?"

"Not really, no."

"Exactly."

The interloper leaned forwards, elbows akimbo. "So what is your story, then, sweetheart?" he drawled, his gaze raking her shamelessly. "Is it as exciting as mine?"

"It… depends."

"I'm all ears."

"Well, pin your lugs, flyboy," Cassandra snapped, "and make yourself comfortable."

The interloper did so, making a pantomime of it, before gesturing for her to continue.

"Once upon a time… there was a little ginger girl. She was the youngest of three sisters. But she wasn't a princess or anything like that. Nobody was bankrolling this lil bean. She had to support her own ass so when she grew up, she got a job in an office. When her old boss retired, this hotshot took over, a real young gun, tall, dark, dynamic. One look at him, and that was that - she fell hook, line and sinker. Somehow he felt the same way, or so she thought." Cassandra looked down at her suddenly shaking hands, the sight making her swallow hard, but she forced herself to continue. "Three months later, they were married. Last year, the company folded and she had to find a new job and he decided to start a business. Today, she swung by his office to drop off some files he'd forgotten, only to find him bending the intern over his desk. Now, I'm here, with you, telling you my life story, the end."

The interloper stared at her, startled. "Jeesh, sounds like you've had a day and a half," he then said, taking another sip of beer. "No wonder you needed a stiff drink."

Cassandra scoffed. She needed more than a stiff drink; she needed something, anything to obliterate the empty void that was now her existence. Her gaze wandered wildly over the interloper, noting the shade of his hair, somewhere between blonde and brown, rendering it almost the colour of brass. His ruddy skin stained by stubble bore the remnants of a faded tan denoting he'd been somewhere abroad recently. The faded fabric of his blue thermal contrasted with his battered leather biker vest, clinging to his well-muscled frame. He had interesting hands, hands she would have once upon a time liked to capture on paper, her artistic eye noting the texture of their coarse skin, his large palms worn down by hard work.

The interloper cleared his throat again. "You got a hand fetish or something, honey?" he asked, ruining her reverie. "Not that I'm judging but you're, uh, kind of freaking me out with the way you're eyeballing my paws."

"Look, why don't we just skip the pleasantries, flyboy?" Cassandra blurted out before her false courage failed her. Despite the dim gloom, everything was suddenly and overwhelmingly bright, the corny country music playing in the background becoming a loud roar in her ears. "You got a place we can go?"

The interloper stared at her again, the tips of his ears turning red, the sight strangely making her feel less sordid. "Uh… I was just going to ask for your number, sweetheart," he said, rubbing the back of his neck nervously, "I saw you and those legs come through the door earlier, and it took the good part of an hour to get up the nerve to come over here and talk to you. I thought I would buy you a drink; maybe ask for a dance or two" –

-"I'm not interested in going steady," Cassandra snapped, her own cheeks flushing hotly, "look how that worked out for me."

"Well, uh," –

The rest of his sentence was cut off by Cassandra suddenly lunging forwards and grabbing the front of his biker vest, her lips crushing his, Cassandra almost falling off her bar stool again, only for the interloper to catch her in his arms, steadying her, his mouth merciless as the kiss deepened and darkened to new depths. Breathless, Cassandra just as suddenly pulled away from him, only to find she couldn't, finding herself trapped in the interloper's iron grip. "This - this is the part where we leave, flyboy," she said, straightening her spectacles with great difficulty, her heart rate unnaturally high.

The interloper finally let go of her, looking as stunned as she felt. "Fine, then," he said dazedly, "let's, uh, hit the road, Miss Jones."

And I know you're lonely

For words that I ain't spoken

But tonight we'll be free

All the promises'll be broken…