For Alica, whose comment inspired me to write this. Here's my response to the little dry spell we've been experiencing. It's just a bit of nonsense.

(I'm dragging my feet on the other one, sorry. It is coming along, I promise, just slowly.)

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"I'm really starting to worry, Rhett," said Scarlett, her brow furrowed with concern. "Whatever do you think could be the matter?"

"I honestly don't know my dear."

"You don't think it's me, do you?" She turned wide green eyes on him as they sat beside one another on the settee in the drawing room of their Peachtree street mansion. "That maybe I'm losing my appeal?"

"Of course not, Scarlett. How can you even think that! Your story has spawned two sequels, a film and mini-series, even a sort of companion piece about my life. And those are only the ones that have been allowed to see the light of day. Many more have fallen by the wayside."

"You forgot the stage show," she reminded him.

"There were two actually, but I thought those might do better to go unmentioned."

Scarlett pursed her lips in displeasure. "You're probably right, Rhett. None of those is really worth writing home about, what with the rapes and murders, and burning the house down-"

"Careful darling, I don't think this fiction contains a spoiler alert."

"I didn't say which house," she mumbled. "And our divorce? Good grief! Of all the ridiculous notions! Did the woman not read our last chapter before she wrote that malicious piece of tat? You promised to come back often enough to keep gossip down."

Rhett shrugged. "I suppose that's what you have to expect when someone is writing in a different era. Divorce doesn't have the same shock value to people reading nowadays as it would have done over a century ago. Times change."

"Alright, fair enough. But what about your remarriage to that little girl Melly clone? God's nightgown! What was she thinking?! Rhett Butler would never have done a thing like that."

"No," he agreed emphatically, "I most certainly would not. Still, Scarlett," he continued undeterred, "the fact that those stories even get published is a testament to your enduring popularity, taking into account all the red tape that needs negotiating before anything is given the go-ahead."

"I suppose," she conceded. "But what about the common people, Rhett? Our fans. All those talented people who write about us on a daily basis, what's happened to them? So many of their stories appear to have stalled. Not an update in sight. Is everyone's mercury suddenly in retrograde that they can't manage to string a few decent sentences together? Or do they just not know the power of the feedback drug? "

"I don't know, my dear," he sighed, taking her hand in his. "Perhaps the gloss has finally started to wear off."

"Oh, but how can that be? After everything we've endured? Twelve years of all manner of hardships? The burdens I've had to carry, the War, poverty, ostracism, marrying men I didn't love? Why that book has everything anyone could possibly desire in a story. Unrequited love, passion, hurt, angst, romance, infidelity, triumph, drama, courage in the face of unimaginable loss."

"Don't forget humour." He leaned over and took a cigar from the humidor on the table to his right and clipped the end.

"It wasn't funny from where I was sitting, but never mind."

Rhett struck a match and lit his cigar. "Nonsense, my dear," he put an arm about her shoulders and pulled her closer, "I defy you to find anyone who didn't laugh out loud when they read that you'd married old Frank Kennedy!"

"Oh hush up!" She swatted him on the arm. "But really, who doesn't love an historical epic? They get to live a past on the page that they could never experience in person. They get to join us on our journey, experience our joys and sorrows and grow to love us in the process."

"And why wouldn't they, my dear?" He leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

"Oh, fiddle-dee-dee Rhett!" she blushed attractively, then pushed away from him, becoming serious once more.

"Our daughter is dead, I've suffered a miscarriage, lost a true friend and the man I thought for years that I loved. My husband, who I do love, is leaving me and I use alcohol to dull the pain and try to maintain control. My life is simply the most wonderful fodder for fan fiction."

"Alliterative too."

"Pardon?"

"Nothing. Go on."

"I don't know what more we could have done. Our story is timeless, it's an unrivalled classic. The tale of the beautiful, ruthless Scarlett O'Hara and her dashing soldier of fortune-"

"Stop, please. You're starting to sound like the blurb on the back of a dust jacket. And not 'beautiful', my dear. Remember," he began to quote, "in her face were too sharply blended the delicate features of her mother, and the heavy ones of her-"

"Alright fine," Scarlett interrupted, annoyed at his nasty habit of pointing out the truth. "But it is an arresting face."

"It is indeed." He gently pinched her cheek and was rewarded with a smile. "I, on the other hand, am handsome."

"Not to mention conceited," she muttered.

"It's all part of my charm," he said casually as he brushed a piece of lint from his sleeve. "The ladies love that sort of thing in a romantic hero, along with good teeth and a full head of hair."

"I'm not convinced."

"Oh come now, Scarlett. Admit it. How many women out there haven't secretly wished I was theirs? Imagined that they were the one I carried up the stairs that night after the party, or kissed with slow, hot lips on the road to Tara?" Scarlett said nothing. "You know I'm right."

"So what then? This lack of action is my fault?" She twisted her skirts nervously between her fingers, then turned to face him. "Oh Rhett, you don't think maybe I have lost my allure and that's why no-one is writing about me?"

"Of course not, my pet. Dashing good looks aren't everything you know. You have all the character traits that make you a wonderfully rich heroine to read and write about." She smiled with pleasure at his comment. "You are hard and unscrupulous,"

Scarlett's mouth dropped open before she snapped it shut. "Opportunistic," she countered with narrowed eyes.

"hot-tempered," he continued.

"Feisty!"

"astute, brave, passionate… scandalous."

"Definitely scandalous." She smiled in agreement and snuggled up against him.

"Feel like a game while we wait?" Rhett picked up a pack of cards and began to shuffle.

"No, not really. I'm sick of being forced to play whist when I really don't like it."

"Alright then, how about drink?"

"Why not. We might as well do something to pass the time." He got to his feet and went over to the drinks cabinet to retrieve two glasses and a decanter of Brandy.

"You still like this, don't you?" He held up the bottle to her.

"Of course I do," she grinned. Rhett poured and handed her a glass. Scarlett tossed its contents into her mouth with a flick of the wrist, then held it out for him to refill.

"You'll get a reputation, my dear," he smiled as he held her hand steady and refilled the glass.

"I already have one, I may as well live up to it."

"Perhaps you'd better pace yourself, Scarlett. We could be here a while yet."

"No, Rhett," she said firmly, "Let's be positive. I have every faith that our loyal fans won't keep us waiting too much longer. Fanfic writers don't have to negotiate any of those pesky publishing laws and such. Or write anything anywhere near as long as a novel. Why, a little story of a thousand words or so would go down a treat right about now and those aren't hard to write at all!"

He sat back down next to her, drink in hand. "I do hope you're right, my pet. I must confess, my feet are starting to itch a little from all this inactivity. I can't stand being idle and existing in this ghastly state of limbo. The waiting around is making me crazy. Hell, someone can even send me back to Charleston to make peace with my people again if they want."

"I thought you were sick of that place?"

"Well I am rather. I've been packed off there so many times in so many different stories that it's really begun to pall." He slumped down a little in his seat.

"Well that is what she wrote, darling," Scarlett pointed out.

"Oh, I know it is. But she also wrote of the possibility of London or Paris. Everyone always seems to forget that in favour of Charleston, but it's of little matter to me. Right now they can make me dance like a performing monkey for all I care. I'd give anything for a little action." He stared moodily into the fire. "I'll even smile sardonically if someone wishes it."

"Pfft," Scarlett scoffed. "Nobody even knows what that word means."

She turned away from him slightly and pulled her dark hair over her shoulder. "Would you mind loosening this corset a bit please, Rhett? If I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, I may as well be comfortable."

He moved closer and began unbuttoning the back of her dress, before slackening the laces a little. He ran his fingers lightly down her exposed skin and placed a soft kiss on the top of her spine. Scarlett closed her eyes and sighed softly.

"And the lack of sex?" he whispered in her ear. "Talk about a different kind of dry spell. What about my carrying you up the stairs that night of Ashley's party? The absence of a description in the book makes that scene perfect for a story. Oh, I know it's been done before, but that shouldn't stop anyone. People have sent you down those stairs on more occasions than I care to count."

"Don't remind me," Scarlett murmured as he ran his warm hands down her arms and kissed the side of her neck.

"Then why not send us up them together? I'm dying to relive that night in some form or another."

She turned around to face him, green eyes meeting black. "So am I, Rhett."

"I'm listening?"

"Well," began Scarlett, her small hands finding their way to his chest, "who's to say we can't amuse ourselves while we wait?"

Rhett wrapped both arms around her and pulled her closer. "Nothing would please me more my darling, but you know the end of the story dictates that I'm supposed to have stopped loving you."

She smiled coyly up at him. "I promise not to tell if you don't."

He was on his feet in an instant, scooping her into his arms, and they were going up the stairs, up into a darkness that was soft and swirling and all enveloping.

FIN.