There was the sound of quiet swearing from the back bedroom, then a plaintive voice said, "Inga, quit guilting me, would you? I've told you a dozen times, I can't lift you up on the bed. I only have one functioning arm, and the way you're built, I just can't balance you right now."

*whine*

*sigh* "Fuck it. I'll try one more time. C'mere. Stand up, and put your front paws on the side of the bed." The woman sitting on the side of the bed, left arm held protectively against her body in a sling, bent down, slipped her right hand under the weenie dog's belly, and hefted quickly. *yelp!* *The yelp was not of the canine variety*

The dachshund was resting on the mattress next to the woman, who was now clutching her sling bound arm, pale faced. The little dog put her front paws up on the woman's leg, stretched up, and licked her face. "You're welcome, Inga. Oh, shit. I left the Vicodan in the bathroom."

*Flash*

Strife and a companion appeared in the middle of the room. Scribe pointed at the Mischief God. "So help me, Strife, if your sparks set fire to anything in here I'm going to use you to smother the flames!" *sigh* "Right. Like I'm up to that right now."

Strife gave her a wary look. "Is that all yer mad at me for right now?"

She waved at him. "Oh, I'm not mad at you--I'm just pissed at the world and Fate in general right now." She pointed to the sling. "Life has been a bit pissy of late."

Strife looked relieved. "Then I don't hafta convince ya that I ain't responsible fah that particular bone snap?"

"What? No, of course not. Not after that incident with my hip. Besides, I can feel it when you're involved in one of my little life hiccups, and this one was nothing but sheer bad luck and my own lack of co-ordination." She gave him a shrewd look. "But not everyone else believes that, eh?"

"Got it in one, sweetheart. Yer Mary Sue fanfiction characters are aftah my ass, an' not in tha standard fun slash way."

"I'll tell them you aren't responsible."

"That'd help, but they're just gonna figure yer bein kind."

*violent giggle* "Please don't make me laugh now. It shakes the arm, and makes it hurt worse."

"Well, ya are kind--on occasion."

"Don't spread it around. I'm trying hard to overcome that 'sweet and nice' reputation that was cemented to me in high school."

"Any ways, I'm tryin ta exonerate myself." He paused, grinning thoughtfully. "Exonerate myself. Sounds kinky, don't it?"

"You'd find a box of Whitman Sampler kinky, Strife."

"Excuse me, but it can be very kinky, if used properly," said the young blond man.

Scribe looked at him, then squeaked. "Greg Sanders?"

He bowed. "In the flesh."

"Being that this is probably a fanfiction, that's debatable, but since when have I ever let logic interfere with a good yarn? What are you doing here? Not that I mind, you understand, but I feel obligated to ask. Damn that exposition."

"I'm gonna need him ta help me interpret any physical evidence I find," said Strife.

"Okay, I can see that. But he can hardly do it HERE, Strife. I don't own sophisticated, state of the art forensic equipment. I have an outdated VCR, a barely adequate computer, a TV set that won't work for the remote, a broken dishwasher, a refrigerator/freezer that's stopped automatically making ice, dammit to hell, a toaster oven, a George Forman grill, and does anyone really believe that he wrote all the recipes that come with it? Now, the 'rents have been hitting the casinos a lot lately, and they've acquired a rotisserie, a wall clock, and a combination coffee maker/toaster oven/grill, but I don't think that any of these things would be of much use in analyzing evidence."

"The coffee maker could come in handy," said Greg. "Lab techs need massive amounts of caffeine."

"You're welcome to make some. I don't drink it, so I can never remember how to make it. Personally I stick to..."

"Diet Pepsi. I know."

She blinked at him. "How do you know?"

"I snatched him outta Gorgeous Stud," Strife informed her.

*squeak!* "Strife! I haven't been able to shower since my accident, and with just one arm, the sponge baths have been sketchy, and I haven't been able to wash my hair since then, either. It now can't decide to be limp, straight, or frizzy, and since the weenie dog likes to get on my pillow, and she has BO like you wouldn't believe, I'm, shall we say, less than fresh, and you bring my version of Greg to see me when I'm like this?"

Greg took her hand and kissed it. "Yep, this is my Mozell, all right." He wiggled his eyebrows at her. "I'm available as personal body slave."

"Uhhh..."

Strife rubbed his hands together. "Okay, so he'll keep ya company till I need 'im. Ya want me ta go get yer Vicodan before I leave?"

Greg had continued kissing her hand. Now he'd turned it over and was kissing her palm. There was a little tongue action going on. Scribe's expression had gone dreamy. "That's okay," she said vaguely. "I think I've found a better pain reliever."

Strife giggled just before he flashed out. "Yah, but knowin you, it might be more addictive."