This fanfiction was a bit of a dedication to the members of MTC's production of "Arsenic and Old Lace", as well as the house members who sat and deciphered all the lovely sexual innuendos. I don't even know what genre this was supposed to end up as, but I can guarantee that it will be pretty much all of them in the end. Good Lord. Have mercy, this will likely be the worst, most unrefined, inappropriate thing I've ever written. ~Cat.

Rating: T+, I think. For swearing, blood, and implied sex.

The rain fell loudly on the slippery pavement. Thunder crackled as a cab pulled up to the curb outside the North Star Theatre. A backlit sign over the the large double-door read "The Merchant of Venice". People gradually filtered in, shaking umbrellas, and chattering loudly. It was a mid-August evening, a great time for theater; a great time to be alive. At least, for most people. [NOT YOU, HAHA.]

"Damn," Mortimer swore between gritted teeth. He glanced at his watch and then at his briefcase, and then Elaine. The only thing that wasn't a formal part of his work was her. She was looking up at the chandelier that hung sparkling and luminescent over the trickling sea of theatergoers. He smiled a wan smile, realizing that this little woman was the only part of his job he could actually look forward to.

The petite blonde stared up a bit at her escort's face. She smirked and giggled behind a politely-gloved hand.

"Elaine!" The drama critic snapped, his expression exasperated. "What part of my displeasure do you find so hilarious?"

She laughed again, pleasantly pink with amusement. "Your face, mostly. Your eyebrows." Elaine removed a glove and reached up to touch his cheek. Mortimer recoiled in surprise, still not used to her oft use of forward gestures. [That's the least of them.] "You seem to scrunch up when you're upset. It's quite endearing, I promise."

The young man blushed and turned to this girl of his, placing his firm hand upon her shoulder. She bit her lip and stared up at the ceiling. "You know, Elaine, you-"

His phrase, pumped with intensity, was interrupted rather rudely by a rushing theater attendant. He stopped to catch his breath and looked up at the pair, making his back stock-straight as was customary. "Mister Brewster? From the paper?" The attendant, whose vest lapel read 'Samuel', straightened his spectacles rather tensely. It was obvious Mortimer wasn't the only one who wasn't enjoying his job.

"Yes," said the journalist icily, his face still mildly flushed. He grabbed Elaine's hand with his free one as the flustered fellow led them to one of the several press boxes high above the crowd. When they were finally alone, the young woman leaned across the armrest between their seats and kissed Mortimer upon the cheek. [AWWWW. Now I need to go run outside and flail away.]

As the show began, Mortimer retrieved a tablet and pencil from his briefcase, leaving them alone on his legs. "Elaine, wake me up when it's over." His thumb grazed the back of her soft hand one last time before he pulled it back to rest on his lap.

"Alright," she sighed. Elaine truly couldn't see why Mortimer didn't enjoy the theater; she herself found the experience to be uplifting and humanizing even when the plot was dire. She'd appreciated and took immense enjoyment in his companionship from the start, but when he'd asked her to accompany him to work every night, this sheltered daughter of a preacher jumped at the opportunity. Not only did she get to spend more time with the man she cared for, she got to see him doing his job. [Not that he works much anyways, heh.]

The play, a Shakespearian drama, was vaguely dull, as well as recited completely in versicles resembling those of the King James Version of the Bible. The actors were talented, though, making a convincing tale of Bassanio good enough to send the audience off into Elizabethan Italy. Elaine found herself gasping and sighing with the crowd. A few stray tears ran a course down her cheek during Portia's monologue in the court, but these swiftly dried up when she found that Portia and Nerissa were posing as the prosecutors to begin with.

The young woman turned to the softly-snoring Mortimer, brushing her hand lightly across his arm. He blinked, squinted, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light again. "Thank you, Elaine." He gathered up his unused tools and stowed them in his briefcase. Coats were donned as the pair, joined at the hands again, descended the steps into the entrance hall. Surrounded by chatter on all sides again, they exited into the rain.

"Let's take a side route," Mortimer urged quietly, unfurling the umbrella. "It's only a few blocks to the aunts', and it's still a long while until your father wants you back at the parsonage." She nodded and squeezed under the umbrella, grinning to herself. It was just the two of them, their steps echoing against the lonely walk of the sidestreet. Darting a stray look at passing alleyways, Elaine shuddered and took the opportunity to get a little closer to Mortimer. [Aha. Hahahaha.]

He noticed the girl's stray movement and looked down. "Is everything alright? You seem nervous all of the-"

At that particular moment, a rather shady-looking fellow exploded out of the next alley, the sound of a garbage bin crashing over following. He looked dirty and was unshaven, his clothes mismatched and in general disarray. "Hand over your wallet and the girl or no one gets away safe!" He shouted, revealing a rather rusty-looking knife from the folds of his jacket. [Hmmm, I smell tetanus.] He lunged and grabbed Mortimer by the lapel, leaving Elaine to fall in a puddle. She screamed.

There was more clanging and shouting, and it sounded as though one or both of them had landed in the trash. The reverend's daughter made a choking noise and got up, her heart pounding. She crept over to the edge and peered around it, expecting the mugger to loom close. She bit her lip and sighed raggedly as she saw Mortimer kick their assailant in the side, illiciting a grunt.

"Mortimer!" She gasped, sprinting over to him. She flung her arms around him and held tight until he let out a pained groan.

Elaine looked down at his hand, which had a shallow cut in it. Taking no time to worry, she tore a tissue out of her handbag and pressed it to the wound. Mortimer let out another groan and bit his lip, leaning against a compost container by the wall.

"We need to get to Abby and Martha's before this gets too serious," she insisted, pacing now. He put out his good hand to stop her. She paused and looked up at him, her gaze aging twenty years with worry.

Mortimer replaced his hand, gripping the other hanky-wrapped one. "I just want to sit and rest. I think the cut's stopping a little bit." Elaine muzzled off her conscious rebukes and plopped down on an empty wooden crate. She uncrossed and crossed her legs skittishly, every so often turning her eyes to look up at the injured man.

The drama critic meanwhile tied a knot in the thin cloth so he didn't have to hold his hand up. It hurt less now, the pain dulling. There was a thin, drying coat of burgundy on the clean white handkerchief. A bit squeamish, Mortimer looked up at Elaine. "Hey, you know something, Elaine?" He looked up and grinned at her. She cocked her head.

"What?"

He chuckled and stood a little straighter. "You have really nice legs." The young woman turned her head to the side and blushed, smirking bashfully. [OH GOD, WHY CAN I VISUALIZE THIS SO WELL?! ... I feel... ill...]

In a flash, Elaine jumped back off of her perch and stood on tiptoes to plant a kiss on Mortimer's lips. As she pulled away, he pulled her back in for a split second. "I need to stop before we get too serious... My heart's beating fast enough to start my hand bleeding again." He winked and offered her his good hand, and she accepted, picking up his briefcase with her other one.

Out in Brooklyn, the rain had stopped. In its place, the clouds receded to reveal a round, luminous moon.

Afternotes: AHHHHHHHHH. AGGHHHHHH. AGGGGGGHHHH, MINDLESS ELAINE/MORTIMER FLUFF. MUST GO LOSE MY MIND NAU. D: