Great! Just bloody great! I thought sarcastically as we sat, unmoving, on yet another green light at Warden and Ellesmere. We were supposed to be traveling eastbound on Ellesmere, supposed being the operative word here. In fact, in another 4 stops, I'd be getting off the bus. Come on, you f---er, let's get a move on! The light changed to red. Again.

I reflected, my thoughts trailed off, and I consciously avoided thinking about how much longer the bus would take. I smiled inwardly, as I remembered McCall declaring "I don't care if you're parked in front of Buckingham Palace! Get. In. The. Car." I checked my watch; it read 2:12 a.m., I consoled myself with the thought. I amended.

I pulled out the book I was currently reading, and started it again. Of course, the bus chose to move at that moment.

I determinedly read a couple more paragraphs before I put it away as we stopped at Birchmount. We passed that intersection with no problem. I yawned. Oops! I rang the bell. I hoped that would give the driver plenty of time to slow down before Wye Valley.

But no. He kept the bus barreling along, until the last possible moment. I thought, trying to balance my swiftly deteriorating knapsack over my right shoulder. Considering the fact that, if I couldn't sling it over both my shoulders, I would next prefer it over my left one, I awkwardly headed off for home.

I paused, trying to make my burden more comfortable. I set off again, with no noticeable improvement.

I sighed, then smothered a yawn. I began to ponder, yet again, the relationship of Mickey and McCall, when I stiffened as I heard a car behind me.

I could hear music from it as it neared me. "Golden Years", by David Bowie, was playing. It slowed and, correspondingly, my heart raced.

"Hey! Need a lift?" I looked towards the car. The dome light was on, lighting the interior. Behind the steering wheel sat Mickey Kostmayer. Not the actor who played him on "The Equalizer", but the actual character. I automatically glanced at his hair, hoping for the early 4th season trendy cut. As I looked, it shaped itself to fit my thought.

Feeling a certain, I don't know, unreality, I approached the passenger window (which I noted was rolled down) and said, "This can't be real." I shook my head, trying to banish the image. Although I can't imagine *why* I'd *want* to banish Mickey...

"No, it's for real, all right. Well," he amended, "sorta."

"What do you mean, 'sorta'?" I was intrigued. Despite that, I had the feeling I should walk away. NOW!

"I am Mickey Kostmayer. Fan fiction writers keep us, you know, the characters from TV shows, alive. Every so often, we can even make contact with them." He smiled that quirky, half-smile I'd seen on the show and loved.

Before I could make a total and complete fool of myself, I denied it. "I'm no writer!" I protested.

"I beg to differ. I know about those two scenes you've e-mailed to people, and the fact I'm being added to the flashbacks of your FK/KF: TLC crossover story."

"I would think that that would prove I'm no writer!" I shot back.

He continued, "Actually, I enjoyed the two scenes." He smiled, his cheek crinkling with the movement.

"So, what, if anything, happens if I get in the car?" I asked.

"Well, now, that's the fun part! I just don't know."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, confused.

"Well, I'm fictional, so all I need is somebody to write, or think a lot, about me, and then I'm substantial to people in your world. Otherwise, POOF! I just come alive through the show, or through the pages of fan fic. On the other hand, you are real. If you come with me, all of that changes. Oh, maybe not immediately. To your friends and family, it will seem like you've dropped off the face of the earth. But, as long as you do the writing, you can be, or do, anything you want. If somebody else writes about you, well..."

"I become as fictional as you," I concluded. "Well, well, well. This is something to think about."

"You don't have much time," he cautioned.

I looked at him. "Okay, say I come with you, then become fictional. Does anything/anybody take over for me?"

"I'm just not sure," he replied, spreading out his hands. "But, there is only one way to find out."

I yawned, again, then made an effort to think. Tired as I was, I knew it was a million-to-one chance that I'd been approached. "Well, it would certainly be an adventure," I wavered. I thought wryly.

"So, are you in or out?" Mickey inquired.

Impulsively, I asked "What would you do in my place?"

His face quirked; a half-smile appeared. "Turn it down. As I'm written and portrayed, I'm a realist. This would be beyond me. I'd walk away, thinking that the person offering was loony." He looked at his watch as another song came on the radio. Idly, I noted it was by The Beatles. "Decision time. In, or out? Stay, or go?"

I hesitated for a fraction of a second, then made my move. I opened the door, and clambered in. As we drove away, I asked "Hey! If I write that I can drive, can I drive? In the real world," I jerked my hand, to indicate the rapidly blurring landscape, "I can't, but in this..." My question trailed off in the wake of his laughter...

*****************************

Trudy reread the last paragraph:

She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then made her move. She opened the door, and clambered in. As they drove away, she asked "Hey! If I write that I can drive, can I drive? In the real world," she jerked her hand, to indicate the rapidly blurring landscape, "I can't, but in this..." Her question trailed off in the wake of his laughter... She noticed that "Got To Get You Into My Life" had finished and that another song replaced it. she thought, it trailed off.

She saved the story.

Trudy packed up her laptop, and, as the sound of her footsteps retreated to her bedroom, she felt inspiration strike, for the next chapter in the story.