a note about the title: the normal phrase is, "a match made in heaven," but, being brains, the chances are he wouldn't say that :P however, it really doesn't feel right, so suggestions are welcome!

Ch. 7

The alarm clock beeped at half seven, as usual. John opened his eyes blearily, just enough to make out the red numbers gleaming in the semi-darkness of the hotel room. He flapped his hand in the general direction of the numbers, and the beeping stopped.

He rolled out of bed, aware that he was feeling good for some reason. As the water in the shower blasted at him, waking him up, he remembered. He was getting married!

Full of good spirits, he continued to make himself look decent for public appearance, and met Brains down in the dining hall. The scientist was already in the world of calculations and chemicals, and did little more than nod as John joined him at the table. John, used to his distant mannerisms, simply poured himself a coffee. As a waitress came up to them to collect their order, Brains came out of his reverie.

"S-s-sleep, well, ah, J-john?" he stuttered.

"Like a log, Brains. Might have had something to do with that glass of champagne, though." Brains chuckled.

"Are you p-planning to, ah, c-c-come to the c-conference, um, today?"

"Yup. I'm looking forward to seeing who the speaker is from NASA, for a start, and what they've been up to in Jodrell Bank. I went there once when I was a student."

"The s-s-speaker, ah, for Jodrell Bank is, um, C-c-catrìona MacLeod," said Brains. John noticed that Brains was feigning nonchalance; he always rested his chin on his hand when he did so. "I c-can't say, ah, for N-NASA. It's on the, ah, l-list of s-scientists, um, attending the, ah, c-conference."

"Catrìona MacLeod..." mused John. "Don't remember the name last time I was there. Admittedly, though, that was a good four years or so ago. It's a great place."

"Yeah, I w-went there, ah, when I was a ch-ch-child."

Their breakfast arrived, and they ate quickly, chatting happily about their experiences in astronomy.

TB

Catrìona walked into the empty conference room, making a bee-line for the laptop by the stage. She'd deliberately arrived early, so that she would have plenty of time to get psyched up before giving her talk. That, and she wanted to make sure the computer would read the files on her memory stick.

Just as she booted the machine up, she was aware of someone else in the room. Looking up, her heart sank.

Meyer stood by the windows, watching her. She took a moment to note that he'd placed himself in the centre, right were the sun was, so that the light shone around him and cast a lot of him in shadow. She rolled her eyes even though she knew he'd see her do it, and carried on with setting up her presentation, making a few minor adjustments.

"Miss MacLeod. I was wondering if you would like to join me for dinner this evening? Maybe even take in a show at the theatre?"

He was trying to be smooth, polite, she knew it. Well, student life in Glasgow had prepared her for when men got too interested. Step one was to ignore them, which she did.

"You're not still annoyed with me, are you? I didn't realise you had to take a phone call."

Step one didn't seem to be working. Step two was to reply curtly and show you weren't interested.

"I'm not surprised you couldn't hear the ring tone, given your small attention span during yesterday's talks," she snapped, tapping the small keyboard slightly harder than usual. She shot him a glare that normally sent the softer men into a hasty retreat. Meyer continued to watch her, and she resumed ignoring him. After a few minutes, he spoke again.

"I know you've heard... bad stories about me, but I can assure you, they're-"

"What, not true?" Catrìona snapped, almost slamming the laptop closed. "Aye, right. Like I'm supposed to believe that." She looked up, and was a little startled to see that he'd stepped closer, away from the windows. The sun was a little higher now, but the light was still intense.

Step three is to thump the eejit, she thought. This isn't your average Glaswegian thug, however. He works with mind-games, not fists. As she debated what to do, he sidled closer. There were mere inches between them now.

"I can show you what a good man I really am," he murmured, gazing down at her. She stared steadily back, until finally his gaze wavered. He turned away, an unreadable expression on his face. The sun had climbed high enough now that it was no longer visible from the window, making its light less intense in the room. Catrìona continued to glare at him as the other scientists began to file into the room.

"You don't know what you're missing," Meyer murmured, just loud enough for her to hear, as he walked away.

Oh, I think I do, thought Catrìona. And you know what? I'm glad I am.

TB

Something was tickling his nose. He raised his arm and scratched it, sure for a moment he heard a snigger. Paranoia kicked in, and his eyes flew open.

There was no one there. He must have just imagined it.

Scott shut his eyes again and wriggled a little in the hammock, getting comfortable once more.

His forehead was itching now. His eyes flying open, he scratched his skin, sitting up and looking around him.

There was still no one there. The pool was completely devoid of Gordon, He could hear piano playing through the open French windows of the lounge, but there was no one nearby. Shrugging, he lay back and settled down again.

This time, something was tickling his cheek. He opened his eyes again, and saw something out the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he grabbed at it reflexively.

It was a feather, attached to a piece of string. He followed the thin twine up, discovering it to be tied to the tree branch directly above the hammock. This had Gordon written all over it. It was either revenge for clipping him round the head yesterday, or the water-baby was venting some steam from boredom. After all, his usual accomplice was up in space.

Scott yawned and stretched. He decided to go and see what the others were, rubbing his hands over his face as he did so.

As he entered the house, the smell of banana reached his nostrils. He breathed in the heavenly scent for a moment. Grandma was making... banana bread... probably twelve minutes out of the oven...there were some nuts in it... no, there weren't nuts... Scott smiled. She'd made two, one without nuts for John. He and Brains weren't due back for another couple of days yet, though... Scott was confident both loaves would be finished by then.

He walked into the kitchen, unsurprised to see Grandma watching the loaves. She had shown a distinct protectiveness over her baking since Scott had stolen a slice of that chocolate cake. It had been worth the bruise, though.

Scott prepared himself for a witty retort to Grandma's inevitable question of, "And what do you think you're up to?"

However, Grandma simply stared at him, rooted to the spot.

"Is everything alright, Grandma?" he asked worriedly. Just then, Virgil walked in, undoubtedly also brought by the irresistible scent of banana bread; his nose, though less well-tuned than Scott's, was by no means inexperienced. Virgil, too, stood, rooted to the spot, staring at Scott, before shattering the sudden silence with a loud guffaw.

He doubled over, clutching his ribs, snorting to himself, before he could compose himself again.

"What?" asked Scott, beginning to get annoyed. Virgil seemed to be struggling not to laugh again.

"What's going on in here?" asked Tin-Tin, coming in from the pantry. When she saw Scott, her hand flew to her mouth to hide the smile that appeared on her face. Then Scott was blinded by a flash of light.

"Gold!" crowed Gordon, clutching his beloved digital camera. Scott hated that camera; it had recorded the results of many a prank. However, the red-head had some unknown hiding place for it, that none of his brothers, not even Alan, knew the whereabouts of.

Grandma seemed to have recovered. Taking her grandson by the elbow, she led him gently but firmly to his bedroom, pausing only to get Tin-Tin to watch the banana bread while she was gone. Even Virgil in the same room was a threat.

Wordlessly, Grandma led Scott into his bathroom, and pointed at the mirror. Dreading what he would see, Scott took a look.

His face was covered in green smears. Looking down at his hand, Scott groaned. Gordon had somehow managed to paint his hand green while he was asleep, and had then rigged the feather so it tickled his face. When he scratched...

Scott sullenly washed his face, glad to see his brother wasn't quite so suicidal as to use something that wouldn't wash off. However, this action was a declaration of war, and Scott never refused a challenge.

just a bit of light humour, and another storyline to mess with :P

translation: scot's dialect- eejit means "idiot". not one i use much myself. i much prefer saying neep, being from caithness. a neep is, literally, a turnip, and is also used as an insult, but it can be quite affectionate at times...