Chatting With the Muses

627

It’s a meta-fic; just what the title says.

 

Disclaimer: I am not dumb enough to risk claiming that I own my muses anywhere where they might hear about it. I definitely don’t own the characters in the TV show.

Notes: Written for AU100 challenge on LJ. I refuse to comment on whether my muses are really this bad.

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The light from the campfire was a dull glow, barely illuminating the knight sat tending it. If he had wanted to see what was around him, he’d have done better extinguishing it and letting his eyes adjust to the dark.

His eyes rested for a moment on the sleeping figure huddled in a mound of blankets, and he shook his head. Doing without the light from the fire would be a blessing, but doing without the heat was another matter entirely.

“Which of us is he?”

The writer jumped. “Starsky,” she acknowledged, not looking round. “Which he do you mean? The knight, or the other one?”

Starsky shrugged, re-reading the brief passage over her shoulder. “Either. Which’m I?”

“Whichever one Hutch isn’t.” Starsky pulled a face at her. “I haven’t decided yet.”

“What’s the storyline?” Starsky looked hopeful. “More vampires?”

She glared at him, putting down her pen. “I said I wasn’t going to do another vampire story for the challenge, remember?”

“You said you were going to try as many different types as possible, then did two gender-swaps. You’ve already admitted you’re not going to make it through the challenge without vampires again. Look, I’ll start it for you:

Hutch sighed heavily as he watched the sky slowly turn indigo, unwilling to turn around and head back to his empty apartment. The beach was deserted because of

“I refuse to have a spate of vampire-style killings, Starsky!” the writer warned him.

“Okay,” he sulked.

the recent heat-wave, which made the smell unbearable.

The writer stifled a giggle, and looked questioningly at Starsky. “And this involves vampires how?” she asked. “If the smell’s too bad for humans, I doubt a vampire could stand it.”

“Don’t see why not. They normally hang around cemeteries,” Starsky argued.

“And do you smell many rotten bodies in your local cemetery?” Before Starsky could answer, she added quickly, “Where’s this story going, anyway? What’s the plot?”

Starsky shrugged. “Vampires.”

She raised her eyes to the ceiling. “No plot. Great.”

“Well, what plot was there with the knight?”

The writer looked back at him. “You are the muse. It is the muses’ job to help with plots and voice.”

Starsky shrugged. “You’ve always known we’re a team. I come up with the ideas, Hutch enlarges on them.”

She blew out in a sound that just missed being a snort. “Hutch!” she yelled.

Hutch appeared, clearly not happy with her. “That shout combines the worst of Dobey when he’s mad with Vanessa at her shrillest.”

Starsky winced at the description, but the writer seemed unimpressed. “That’s why it’s so effective.” Hutch glared at her, and she faltered for a moment before continuing, “and I always end up calling you after a few minutes with Starsky, because he drives me up the wall when I’m trying to write!”

“Try living with him,” Hutch muttered.

“I live with him in my head. That’s more than enough,” she retorted.

“Hey!” Starsky protested, giving them both a hurt stare. They both ignored him.

Hutch rubbed his forehead. “There’s no chance of you letting me get back to what I was doing until I help you, is there?”

“Absolutely none. Now, come and help me with the fic.”

Hutch settled himself with a resigned expression. “Which prompt is it for?”

Starsky looked inquiringly at the writer, who stared back at them both blankly. She shrugged.

There was a definite hint of loss of temper in Hutch’s voice as he asked, “You called us when you don’t even have a story for us to help with?”

“I have ninety-three stories for you to help with,” she replied, then reconsidered. “Ninety-something, anyway.”

“And more than ten have been started on the computer, and you’ve started ‘blind’ twice so far,” Hutch pointed out.

The writer’s lips twitched. “Third time lucky?”

“No,” Hutch said.

She shrugged again. “So pick a different one.”

“How about doing a story, then figuring out which prompt it fits?” Starsky suggested sweetly.

Starsky tilted his hat back, watching the cloud of dust from the west intently. Whoever it was, they were moving fast. He leaned forwards, patting the neck of his horse.

“Hey, I’m not going on a horse!” Starsky protested.

“The Wild West, Starsky,” Hutch explained with a note of condescension. “Everybody rode horses.”

The writer put down her pen again. “I’m not keen on doing those. I don’t know much about that time – and I’m not interested in reading a bunch of Westerns just to give me source material, so don’t waste time suggesting it.”

Hutch folded his arms. “There’s only so much we can do if you aren’t going to do any research.” He pointed a finger at her rigidly as he continued, “And if you’re going to expect us to help you with these stories, you should start putting some effort of your own in, because -”

A choked giggle escaped from the writer. “That ain’t how most people react,” Starsky said, eyebrows raised.

“Most people don’t remember seeing a picture of Hutch with a glowing finger raised, and the caption ‘Magic Finger’,” the writer pointed out, still on the verge of laughter.

Hutch was speechless. Starsky’s face lit up. “Can you show me it?”

“Sure! Next time I’m on the computer,” she promised. Glancing at Hutch, she added quickly, “Let’s get back to work now.”

“Okay!”

She picked up her pen again. After a few moments of staring at a blank page, she said tersely, “Hutch, would you please remove the block you’ve just given me?”

“I want you to actually think about what you’re writing,” Hutch told her, adding under his breath, “This time.”

She rested her chin on her free hand, pouting at the paper.

“Sulking doesn’t look good on you.”

“I’m not a main fictional character. I don’t have to look good.” Her expression changed from a pout to a full-blown scowl. “Maybe I should just try re-writing one of my started AUs to fit a prompt.”

“Maybe we should look at the list of prompts again.”

She reached to the side and snagged it. “Done those and started those,” she said, gesturing at the marked words.

“What’s with that?” Starsky asked, pointing at the way ‘Easter’ was bracketed by question marks.

“Oh, I wasn’t sure if I had it right. I didn’t; it’s… New Year’s, not Easter.”

A silent message passed between Starsky and Hutch, earning them a puzzled look from the writer. Not bothering to enlighten her, Hutch walked around to look at the list of prompts. “Do you have ideas for any of these? That you haven’t already started, I mean,” he added impatiently when she gave him an ironic look.

She glanced at the paper again. “Uh… Spirit, Moon, Water, Too Much, Deaf -”

“You wrote that one,” Starsky interrupted. “With Huggy.”

“The other type. Can’t hear,” she corrected him.

Starsky looked thoughtful. “What was your idea for that, anyway? I’ve forgotten it.”

“I haven’t,” Hutch said. The writer looked at him, and turned her attention to the page before her without bothering to ask if he would help her write it out. “Any others?”

She looked the prompts over again, then looked up uncertainly. “Hours?” she suggested.

Starsky grinned. “The cuckoo clock. C’mon, Hutch, let’s do that one. I’m proud of it!”

Hutch grumbled, “You would be.”

The writer sighed in relief as they both vanished, and focused on the new story.

The mechanisms inside the clock whirred as the hour approached…