*sigh*

*The golden blond man with the sexy wings pointedly ignores the slender, pale man who is flopped dramatically across their bed* *Said pale man gives him a hurt look, which is also ignored*

*Sigh!*

*Blond man's feathers are ruffled* *Now he sighs* "What?"

"Cuuuupie..."

"Yes, you have to go."

"Aw, c'mon. Couldn't I just, like, send flowahs? Women like flowahs."

"You know, flowers are an excellent idea." *Strife begins to perk up* "Talk to Gaia and get her to help you pick out something special."

*Strife droops again.* "I was thinkin about havin 'em delivahed. Maybe with a nice card?"

Cupid turned from the scroll he'd been reading and glared at his husband. "You make the woman break her hip, and you think that a posey and a Hallmark are enough to apologize? I'm ashamed of you, Strife, and I just don't understand you. I know it's different with a deity or a demi-god--they heal quickly, and there's little that's permanent, but Scribe is a mortal--and a good friend. Think of all the fantastic, hot fic she's written for and about us. And I could understand you not wanting to bother with the personal touch if it was someone like Gabrielle or Hercules, but..." Strife fidgeted with the sheets, not looking at Cupid.

Cupid frowned. Strife wasn't an easy person to understand, but Cupid knew him better than most people. Anyone else on Olympus would have seen nothing but peevishness, and a reluctance to put himself out--Cupid saw deeper. He got up and went to sit beside his lover.

Strife had rolled over onto his belly, burying his face in a pillow. Cupid laid a hand gently on his back, and felt the tension in the long, slender back. "Babe, what is it? All you have to do is go apologize to Scribe. I haven't seen you like this since you got mixed up and destroyed that dam, wiping out two battalions of Dad's best men. You were so worried about confessing to that that you turned green." He buried his hand in the soft, spiky black hair and gently turned Strife's head, peeking at his face. "And you're looking a little pastel around the edges now. What gives?"

Strife was trembling. "I dint mean it, Cupe! I only wanted ta mess with her a little, ya know how it is."

Cupid sighed, rolling his eyes even as he tried to soothe his husband. "Sh, sweetie. Zeus, it's been over two thousand years, and I still haven't been able to stamp out that 'I like her--maybe I should torment her' mentality."

"It just..." Strife sat up, materializing a huge black handkerchief and honking into it lustily. He waved the material before making it disappear. "When I fucked up tha motion activated light on her porch I just thought maybe I could get her ta step in some dog crap. It'd been rainin, an' her pooch, Miss Inga, don't like ta go on tha grass when it's wet, so she had a nice little pile down tha walk-way, near tha drive." He managed a watery giggle. "Ya know how Scribe always wears them funny shoes with tha textured soles?"

Cupid nodded. "She calls them 'sneakers with delusions of grandeur'."

"Tha shit woulda sunk inta all tha little nooks an' crannies of tha soles, an' it woulda taken her fahevah ta get it all out." He smiled. "Dog shit on tha shoes is a classic. It'll nevah go out of style." His face fell. "But I guess she got confused in tha dark, an' fahgot how many steps there were, an' bang! Right on the cement." He winced. "Ya know, Cupe, she's tougher than ya'd think. She dint even scream--just yelled some." He cocked his head, as if puzzled. "An' she dint cuss. That surprised me." He winced again. "Her... her Mom was right behind her. She was just..." He waved his hands, helpless to describe the horror and pain of a mother seeing her child, even her grown child, injuring herself. It was different with Discord and Strife. They were both House of War, so a certain amount of injury was expected, and Eris just wasn't the nurturing, nursing kind.

Cupid hugged him, saying softly. "You've been eating your heart out over this since it happened, Strife. That 'oh, well' act doesn't fool me, you know."

"It don't?"

"No. That's one reason why I'm insisting on this. You need to go apologize to her. It'll do you as much good as it does her."

"Ya think?"

"I think. As long as you're sincere about it." Strife gave him a 'look'. "I'm sorry, hon."

Strife stared down at his hands. "Cupe? What if she won't fahgive me?"

Cupid blinked. He hadn't considered this. Scribe was, in general, a laid back sort, but she could be as devious and persistent as Strife himself when she was truly annoyed. "I don't know, Strife. But you'll never know what might happen till you give it a try."

Scribe was sitting on her bed, propped against the headboard, legs stretched before her. The places where she'd had the sutures were itching again. *I can't even glare at the damn bandages, because they're in such an awkward place,* Scribe fumed. *Okay the choices are--scratch myself bloody, or be a good girl, refrain, and go totally out of my mind.* After a moment's thought she snatched a pair of clippers off a bedside table and began to trim her nails, muttering, "No nails, no scratching, right? It's just rubbing. Rubbing never hurt anyone."

"Well, outsida Indian burns an' noogies, I'd hafta agree, Toots."

Scribe froze. She didn't move, but her eyes slid toward the door to her bedroom. Sure enough, Strife was lounging in the doorway, leaning on the doorframe with his hands behind his back. She silently returned her attention to her hands, nipping off another sliver of nail.

Strife winced at the frosty silence, but kept trying. A slash reference never failed to put her in a good mood. "I know that Cupe an' me are firm believahs in rubbin." He sighed. "I am in trouble, ain't I?" This time she did look at him. "Yow! Hot enough ta singe, an' cold enough ta make my balls wanna crawl back home."

"Well, tell your balls to take the rest of you with them." She turned her attention away from him, snipping off another sliver of nail.

"Aw, c'mon, Scribe. Ya know I dint mean this ta happen."

"But it did."

Strife shuffled toward her. "Brought ya somethin." He pulled his hands from behind his back, revieling an enormous bouquet of flowers.

Scribe squeaked, grabbed a pair of sunglasses off her bedside table, and clapped them on. "I haven't seen that much gold and purple since high school, when we played for district champion against... Damn, which school was that? Anyway, we beat them. What are those? They seem to be glowing."

"They're Gaia's versions of yellah roses an' bluebonnets. I thought, what with you bein from Texas, an' all... Waterford or Lalique?"

"Huh?"

"Let's go fah Waterford." He materialized a tall, cut-glass vase on her computer desk and began arranging the flowers in it. "I just might mention that this one is listed far $250 in tha catalogue."

Her jaw dropped. "Two hundred and... Strife, I didn't pay that much for my first car." Strife shrugged. "Yeah, right--I've always driven for crap cars." She took a breath, then said flatly. "Okay, they're nice. They're pretty. You can go now."

"I ain't done yet." He snapped his fingers, and a brightly colored, flat box appeared in his hands. He offered it.

She peered closely, then sat back abruptly. "Godiva chocolate!"

"Ya said that's tha best kind ya got in tha mortal realm--I heard ya."

"This is the real world, and I'm diabetic, you devil! How can you torture me like this?"

"Chill. I ran these past Ace, an' he did some ultra special mumbo-jumbo on 'em. These happen ta be sugahfree, low carbahydrate, an' about five calahries each. This is a one time thing--somethin about stuff that tastes this good bein good fah ya tampahrin with tha fabric of tha universe--so enjoy."

She eyed the box again. "No shit?" He crossed his heart. She took the box and opened it gingerly, peering inside. "Oooooo... Lookit all the pretty little flowers and shells and diamonds and... stuff." She sniffed luxuriously, then her hand hovered over the top tray before finally descending and rising with what looked like a tiny clam. She bit into it daintily. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she groaned. "Praline creme. Why do people do cocaine when they have this, and it's only marginally more expensive--but legal?"

"So ya fahgive me?"

She selected a chocolate walnut and ate it. "You think it's that easy? Flowers and candy are for if you say something stupid." She pointed to a contraption made of tubes, with wheels. "I'm on a freaking walker." Strife's bottom lip started to tremble. "No--don't do that." His eyes grew huge and moist. "I said stop it! Not the hurt puppy eyes!" He sniffed. "Crap! Okay, you're forgiven. Now, get out of here before I grow a backbone."

Strife dropped down on the bed beside her. She didn't exactly wince, but she tensed, and he said hastily, "Sorry! Look, if ya really fahgive me, you'll lemme do somethin fah ya."

"Okay--make it so that the cat and weenie dog don't tangle with me when I'm on my walker."

"Done."

"I want my Mom to have trouble free operation of her car for a year."

"Ya got it."

She eyed him shrewdly. "Bug free computer operation for the rest of my life."

"Nice try."

She sighed, but it was good-natured. "I knew I couldn't get away with that."

Strife shrugged. "Some things just ain't meant ta be, sweetie. I would if I could, but tha Fates would have my ass." He grinned, running one long finger down her cheek. "But there are othah things I could do fah you."

She blinked, flushing. "Strife--broken hip, remember?"

"Yah, I remembah." He waved his hand, and there was a shower of pink and gold sparks.

A very startled looking Cupid appeared beside the bed. He was dripping wet, and clutching a small towel about his waist. "Strife, what the fuck..." He noticed the gaping woman on the bed. "Scribe!" He hurried over and sat on her other side, putting an arm around her. "I was going to drop by earlier, but I never had a free moment when your Mom wasn't home, and remembering how freaked she was that time we came over to watch television..."

The towel was gaping. "That's okay," Scribe said faintly.

"Still, I could have at least sent you a get well card. Oo, or shot that nice paramedic with a delayed action infatuation arrow, so he'd look you up after you came home."

"Thank you, but my life is complicated enough as it is."

"Don't sweat it, Feathahs," said Strife. "I know how ya can help me make it up ta her."

"How?"

Strife blinked, and a huge pile of fluffy pillows--pink, white, red, and black--appeared on the floor in the middle of the bedroom. "Wow, fifties color scheme," observed Scribe. "But I can't have a harem nest in the middle of my room. I'll never make it around those in the walker."

"It's temporary," Strife assured her. He moved quickly, suddenly grabbing Cupid and tossing him into the pile. "It stays only as long as it takes fah me 'n Cupie ta screw our brains out fah your entertainment." He leaped. A cloud of feathers--some from Cupid, and some from the pillows--poofed up into the air.

Scribe leaned over slightly for a better view. She stared. She blushed. She reached for a legal pad and a pen. From the floor came Strife's voice, "Hey! Ya startin writin again?"

Cupid said (after releasing what he'd had in his mouth *blush*), "Taking notes?"

"Don't need to take notes," she assured him. "I have a photographic dirty mind, and I'll write something later. This is another project." She waved. "Carry on."

They did.

In a Government Office, Somewhere in the Nation's Capital

The woman in the power suit tapped on the office door, then entered. "Any interesting begging letters today?" she asked her colleague.

He was staring at a sheet of paper. "Got an odd one here."

"I'll match you. I don't think anything can beat the one requesting a study of why people will, at a restaurant, sit at a dirty booth before they sit at a clean table."

"I can't quite understand this one, so you may have it."

"What do they suggest?"

"Well, she wants money to fund a study into the effectiveness in relieving pain and stress by the application of something called 'slash'." He didn't notice the woman's eyes go wide. "I'm really doubtful about this--she signed an alias."

"An alias?"

"Yes--her name, then AKA Scribe."

The woman looked thoughtful. "By any chance, is that post marked Texas?"

"Why, yes. How did you know?"

"Wild guess. Tell you what," she plucked the paper from his hand. "You're overworked. I'll take care of this one."

He sounded pleased. "Hey, thanks! Anything off my workload is a big help."

"Don't mention it." She headed for the door.

"No time to chat?"

"Nope. I have to go check my email, then review the funding budget to see how much money is available."

She left, singing under her breath. Her co-worked decided that he must really be working too hard, because why on earth would she be singing about someone called 'Joxer, the Mighty'?