Author's Notes:

Hard to be in "write-once, read-many" mode. That's the point of stream-of-consciousness, one of many. That's the one I will keep to -- to not edit the content of anything I've posted thus far. I'll correct for errors of form: grammar, tense, spelling, etc. However, I don't want to play a game of "did I or didn't I" with the readers.

It's odd how I've come full circle. My first foray into writing was on a site that welcomed serial fiction. We were writing for fun, for our shared avocation. However, I felt underchallenged, and moved to a site that was far more craft-oriented.

Somewhere, I lost the fun of writing. I enjoyed talking to more serious writers, but I wrote less and less. I was less experimental. I didn't push my imagination. I grew rigid in form, rules and structure. I knew everything about writing (or so I thought), but lacked the heart.

So, I'm back, writing for fun. Writing serial. Writing once, reading many times (You don't think I accumulated 23K of external viewers, did you? Each one is probably matched by at very least three of mine, editing and fussing over nits and picks. And just ego-reading my own work. Sad, sad.) **giggle**

(Those of you just joining here, start with Callan and Sian 1)



"Flowers? How'd he get my address?" The bouquet lit the tiny apartment with its glory. Reds and oranges, yellows and browns, it embodied the autumn beyond the city.

"A good question. Evidently you know who it's from, Sian?"

"'Wanted to suggest a ride in the country for our date tonight.' Three guesses." She held up the handwritten card, devoid of printing otherwise.

"I see. What do you think his intent is here?"

"To make me go weak at the knees. Flowers. How cliche."

"Really? None other?"

"Nope. Why are you -- Oh. I don't know. To weird me out? What good would that do?"

"What would be your first reaction? If I weren't here, that is."

"I dunno. Chase after the delivery boy, I guess. Ask him where this is from."

"Mm-hmm." Callan nodded. "Expose yourself to the elements."

"How's that any safer than in here? He knows where I live!" She shot a glance at the door, making sure the deadbolt was set.

"I'm not sure, but I can think of many easier gambits with you outside your home than inside."

"If he wanted to rape me, wouldn't he want to do it in private?"

"If that was all he wanted, perhaps. But, would a rapist send flowers?"

"Why are you asking me these questions?"

"Because, girl, I want you to think. Not just react, but think. Because other people out there have already thought about your reactions and are counting on them."

"Is this your James Bond act again?"

"What do you think?"

"I don't know. Maybe you sent the flowers."

"Oh, of course. Does that make sense?"

"I don't know. I don't know. None of this makes sense. I want you to go."

"Me?"

"Yes, until I met you, I knew what I was doing. I was on top of things. I don't need you and your ... whatever. I just want you gone."

"He knows where you live."

"I'll go stay with a friend."

"You'll go outside, then."

"No, she lives in this building."

"How do you think he found your address?"

"It doesn't matter. I'll be gone!"

Callan sighed. His Will surfaced, his eyes blazed. His voice deepened, and each word he infused with Will. "No, girl, you listen to me. We leave together, now. I can keep us safe." He sighed, fatigued from exerting so much of his Will, regretting using it on her instead of guiding her reach an enlightenment.

"Didn't you hear me, Mr. Spy? I don't need you to keep me safe. Now, leave before I call the cops."

The clatter of the fork on his plate shook Callan free of his surprise.