She was stuck.

She'd finished work early, and the bus wasn't due for another hour. It had felt like the perfect opportunity to steal some time from Real Life. The pub was warm, relaxing and within reach of cold lager. Three of her favourite things, but none of it had un-stuck her.

She glared at the pristine writing pad before her as she chewed the end of her pen. Yup, she thought. That is one blank pad. So blank. Really blank. Jeez, it looks smug…

The writer's block remained. Solid. Immovable. God, it was irritating. She tapped her pen idly on her glass, wondering how she could describe the drought afflicting her usually overgenerous imagination...

A constipation of creativity? An impotence of ideas?

Yikes.

Either way, it wasn't pretty.

She huffed a frustrated sigh. She couldn't concentrate. Which was ridiculous, because usually when she lost her focus it was because she was lost in the fic. Thinking about new ideas, new scenarios for the boys in blue.

Hmmm, ironic. Wait, was that irony? Dunno. Bloody annoying though…

After a while she just zoned out and found herself staring, hypnotised by the lights of the nearby pinball machine. Absently she felt the size of the block in her mind. It seemed insurmountable, almost physical; smooth and square, huge and blank. So very blank.

"And you're going to cure it, how?" came a rich, low voice beside her.

She didn't turn her eyes to the presence. To be honest, she wasn't surprised he was here, pestering her. Her favourite muse was never one to sit around and do nothing, especially in the face of a potential problem.

"What's it to you?" she asked quietly, without breaking her stare with the pinball machine. She hated breaking a good stare.

"Oh, I don't know," she could hear the smile in his reply. "I guess I like to be kept occupied."

She grinned at his playful tone and replied, "Keep yourself occupied."

"Well, I am. All my plans involve bothering you." His words were accompanied with a sharp finger poking her repeatedly in the ribs. Well, there goes the great stare, she thought ruefully.

She turned her eyes to Scott at last, trying not to smile at his apparent boredom, "I don't know. In public you tend to get me into trouble."

He grinned easily at her. "Not this time," and he gestured around the pub. He was right, she noticed. No one was even close to being interested in her. She could go on for now; Real Life wouldn't miss her just yet.

She smiled across at him, "You don't often talk to me directly. You normally just try out the scenes floating around my head."

Her dark-haired companion flashed her his well-known set of dimples, "It seemed like an emergency."

"Ah, just your area of expertise," she observed. "Well, I hate to say it, but you're right. My concentration's gone. Maybe forever, not that I'm alarmist, or anything." She sighed. "No more storylines for you for a while."

He only shrugged, "Unacceptable. We'll just have to cure you."

"Oh really?"

"Really."

She mock-glared at him, amused by his bossiness. She decided to try distraction for now, before he started attempting to solve all problems within a five-mile radius. Including her.

"Here alone?" she asked nonchalantly.

He leaned back in the cushions of their sofa and folded his arms, "You tell me." Well, she was supposed to be the writer, she remembered. She should know.

"Hmmm," she rolled her eyes in exaggerated thought. "Virgil's parking the car, right?"

"Close, it's John."

She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "Oh? I would have expected Virgil."

He reached to the table for a drink she hadn't realised he had, "Why? We're not joined at the hip."

"Oh yeah?" she grinned mischievously. "Some of my colleagues have theories, you know."

He took a sip of his drink and grinned again, "I know."

"I like this pub," the new voice surprised her and she jumped. She spun around to see John sitting on her other side, drinking in the scenery around him. John, serene and poised as always. John in full International Rescue uniform.

"Oh, come on," she rolled her eyes. "What are you wearing?"

"You don't like it?"

"I love it, but don't you think you're a bit overdressed for a local pub?"

He raised a playful eyebrow, eyes still taking in his surroundings, "I don't know. Maybe I'm so worried about this latest block that I feel like I'm on Rescue Stand-by." Then his mocking gaze turned to her. "Or maybe my writer has no imagination today."

Her indignation flared, "Don't go blaming me. I think you just fancied wearing it out."

John brushed imaginary dust from the shoulder of his sash. "It is pretty stylish."

A packet of crisps sailed across the table and hit her in the side of the head. She paused for a second, taking a breath and deliberating whether she could ignore the newcomer's audacity. But after a moment she turned with resignation. Gordon was sitting across the table, munching his way through his own packet of crisps, unblinking and provocative stare fixed on her.

She closed her eyes and shook her head lightly. Clearly the situation was serious enough to necessitate more personnel.

"What's her problem, Scott?" Gordon didn't look away from her as he addressed his brother. She glared back at him as Scott smilingly replied:

"At the moment? I think, you."

"No, I mean shouldn't she be writing? She's always got ideas; man, we never hear the end of the ideas normally." Gordon turned his head so that he could continue his unsettling stare whilst tipping the crumbs from the crisp packet into his mouth. After a moment's chewing, he continued, "Is she broken?"

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here, that's bloody rude," she huffed, folding her arms and sitting back. "In fact, of all of us, I'm the only one who is here, so… y'know. There's that."

Gordon's looked delighted to have her rattled, "Touchy."

"Scott, give me a quarter," Alan bounded over from the pinball machine.

"Oh, for God's sake," she snapped. "How many Tracy's does it take to –?" She frowned suddenly, picking up her pen and scrawling a sentence on the pad. Then she read it back and scribbled it out, wiping a hand across her chagrined face. This was getting ridiculous.

"What did you write?" She suspected she could hear supressed laughter in John's voice.

"Never mind."

"Was it 'How many Tracys does it take to change a lightbulb'?" Definite laughter now.

"If you knew, then why did you ask?" she muttered, unable to keep the defensive edge out of her voice.

"Wow," Gordon grinned. "This drought is bad."

"It was going to be a joke," she protested forcefully, ready to defend to the death an idea she'd thought up five seconds ago and dismissed three seconds ago. "It could be a little funny ficlet. I could have pulled it off. Maybe. Shut up."

Alan laughed, "Yikes. Anyway, Scott, give me a quarter."

"Alan, we have a situation," John chided from beside her. She smiled at the reference, despite her annoyance.

"We do? I don't see how," Alan shrugged. "She always fixes it eventually. It'll be fine."

She was genuinely touched by the dismissal. He clearly wasn't worried. "Thank you," she said pointedly, glaring around at the rest of them. "No emergency here. Now stop nagging at me, I'm trying to concentrate."

They murmured their deferrals and fell quiet. With renewed determination she picked up her pen, scowling at the page again and trying not to notice their watchful presence. John was mostly behaving, but she felt Scott lean in a little, looking over her shoulder. She knew Gordon was resting his chin against his fist, eyes flicking between her and the pad, challenging her. Alan, more concerned with returning to the pinball machine, had started poking Scott in the arm. He was getting shoo'd away, but he wasn't deterred. She squeezed her eyes closed, frowning against the distractions – think think think…

And then she heard it. The piano. The bloody piano.

"This pub doesn't even have a piano," she snapped, banging her pen down in irritation. Her companions laughed.

"Seems it does now," Scott shrugged, smiling. "Maybe there's hope. Maybe your imagination isn't actually dead, it's just in a really solid coma."

"Well that's charming," she slumped back against the cushions again, sulking.

"Don't worry," Gordon put in brightly. "We'll fix you. We never give up, at any cost."

She tried to scowl at him, but she had to admit there was some comfort in the idea. Still, she couldn't keep from asking worriedly, "At any cost? What kind of cost are you anticipating?"

"You could quit your job," Alan called over his shoulder from the pinball machine, eyes glued to his game. "Then you'd have tonnes of time to write."

"Yeah, I'd have all the time in the world until I got evicted," she rolled her eyes, resting her head in her hand. Work, chores, commitments... Real Life was starting to call her back, she could feel it.

The piano piece ended, and suddenly Virgil was standing at Scott's shoulder.

"Sorry fellas, that's our cue. Time to head back to base."

Disappointment rose in her as they started to gather themselves. Her eyes dropped to the mostly blank pad and she sighed. Maybe she was broken.

"You know," Scott put in as his brothers started to leave, "you could just write this."

She rolled him an unimpressed look, "No-one wants to read this."

He shrugged into his jacket, "Is that really the point? You like it. Just get it down."

"He's right, you know," Virgil smiled, picking up Scott's beer and downing what remained.

"Aren't I always?" Scott's gave his brother a supercilious grin.

"No. Anyway, I get the same way with painting, but creativity breeds creativity. So read anything. Write anything. Just keep going." He pinned her with a steely eye as he returned the glass to the table, "Be determined."

She smiled warmly at him, wondering which of life's problems Virgil wouldn't try to solve with determination. Her eyes swept over him as they made to leave, and he seemed to notice.

"…What?"

She gestured to his outfit, "If I'm honest, I just never understood the cravats."

Scott laughed and swatted his brother's shoulder, "I told you." But Virgil just shrugged the good-natured shrug of someone who'd heard all this before.

"I guess the heart just wants what it wants."

I suppose you're right, she mused as she found herself alone again. The heart just wants what it wants...

And she turned back to her pad and started to write.

######

Author's note: After writing this, I had very vague memories of reading a 'How many Tracys does it take to change a lightbulb' fic, many many years ago. If it does exist, I mean no disrespect! In the story above the idea I have is dire, no reflection on the 'Tracys plus lightbulb' format in general :D

Author's PS: Keep writing, people! It's the only way to unstick yourself. And have fun, because that's the whole point!