“You hate me,” the fictive accused as she dropped onto the far end of the sofa, giving her Author a perturbed glare. “Admit it.”

“Will not,” the Author harrumphed, “I like you just as much as any of the rest—I’m just distracted is all.” She moved her laptop cord as Sam swung her feet up onto the coffee table. “Just ask Meg how long it took me to finish The Wolves We Are.”

“Which was supposed to be a learning experience,” Sam leaned over to try and see the laptop screen and the Author snapped it shut in annoyance. “Heck, you aren’t even working on Script Frenzy, so that excuse’s out the window.”

“Writer’s block, totally not my fault. Now shoo.”

“Writer’s block is a figment of your imagination.” Sam fished a beer from between the magical couch cushions of holding and sat back, feet still propped much too close to laptops for Authorial comfort.

“So are you,” the Author pointed out grumpily. “But I don’t see you leaving anytime soon either. And stop using my couch as a dimensional portal, it’s freaky.”

“‘Useful’,” Sam said, “the word you want is ‘useful.’ Now let’s get back to why you hate me and my story is stuck in limbo.”

“I don’t hate you, it’s just stuck. And technically it’s turned into Jack’s story, so go bitch at him.”

“Hey, don’t blame this on me,” objected the other fictive, who was rummaging through the fridge. “And you seriously need to go shopping.”

“You’re a sidekick that’s taken over the main POV,” the Author pointed out, while writing in some groceries. She moved closer to the end of the couch as the new fictive plopped down in the middle and offered Sam a sandwich. “I wasn’t expecting you to grab the story and run.”

“It’s not my fault I’m the easiest target,” Jack pointed out, “Gimme some superpowers like everyone else and I’ll promise to stay out of the limelight.”

“I don’t have superpowers!” Objected Sam, around a mouthful of sandwich.

“You have a unicorn.”

: Who has all of the superpowers and quite likes it that way. : Fluffy wandered in from the backyard, still munching on a mouthful of tulips. : I say we just let Jack have the story and I can go back to getting some Evil properly vanquished. :

“But it’s not supposed to be his story!” The Author snapped, “It’s supposed to be about you and Sam!”

: Why? :

“Because, well, because it is.” The Author crossed her arms grumpily. “It’s supposed to be about Sam’s adventures, not Jack’s.”

“Hey, you gave me the boyfriend,” Sam pointed out, “it’s pretty much an ensemble cast at this point.”

“I refuse to be in this Musefic.” Terry wandered in from the hallway, looking for the exit. “I have much better places to be, and much better things to do with my time.” The dhamphire tried the front door, but it just led back to the door from the yard. “I am not an ensemble.”

“This is my house!” the Author made shooing motions at the random fictives, which they promptly ignored.

: I came in through the back door, : Fluffy watched as Terry played Portal with the exits. That really shouldn’t work. :

“Try going out the window,” Jack offered. “Or maybe you can get out through the roof?”

There was much lively debate, most of which centered on power tools and mild explosives.

“So, feel like getting back to my story yet?” Sam asked innocently, pulling another beer from the couch.

And lo, the Author sighed and grabbed her own beer.