Title: "All These Conversations End the Same"
Author: AnxietyGrrl
Summary: Ray and Neela get distracted. (Post-series.)
Notes: I apologize that this isn't an actual story, but I'm trying to shake the rust off my writing gears, so I thought I'd share. Each chapter is a standalone scene, linked by a loose theme (talkin' and makin' out, basically).

"But Can You Dance To It?"

She handed him the guitar and said, "Play me something."

"Oh, come on..."

"Go on! What, are you shy?"

"You don't want to hear-"

"Yes I do. Play me something."

She planted herself on a chair and crossed her arms.

He rolled his eyes. "Fine. What do you want to hear?"

"I think you know."

"Ohhh, come on, I can't-"

"You are shy! Here's a turn of events. I'm practically naked, and you're shy."

"I'm not-I don't remember all the chords, okay?"

"I don't believe you."

"I don't believe you. Who are you?" he laughed.

"I'm your muse. Now don't be so bloody stubborn, and play my song."

"You want a happy one, a sad one, or an angry, bitter one?"

She frowned. "There's an angry one?"

"There are, like, five angry ones. Things were pretty rough for a while."

"I don't think I want to hear those."

"Yeah, me neither. I mean, I don't want you to. They all suck, anyway."

She watched him in silence for a while as he fiddled with the tuning. "Play the sad one," she said finally.

It was short, probably unfinished, two verses and a chorus. She had to lean forward to hear the words. He didn't once look at her as he played, and he did trip over a chord or two.

When he was finished, she got up slowly, said, "Well," and went to sit on the arm of his chair.

He set aside the guitar and looked up at her. "Well?"

She stroked her fingers over the back of his neck and leaned down for a long, soft kiss. "That..." she said, with a playful bump of her nose against his cheek, "was pretty bad, actually."

He overplayed indignation with a grimace and a very non-threatening sort of growl, and dragged her onto his lap. "Oh yeah?"

"Afraid so."

"Whose fault is that, muse?"

"I'm sorry," she said through laughter as he nipped at her throat and collarbone. "But as a songwriter you make an excellent physician."

"See if I ever let you request anything again."

She shook her head to protest. "Oh, no. I'm only kidding, really. Just not that one."

"That bad, huh? Guess it's not going on the album," he joked.

"Bin it," she agreed, "definitely."

"So, Dr. Pitchfork, did you hate the music or the lyrics or...?"

"It just..." She stilled, and when she looked him in the eyes her expression sobered. "I didn't like it. It didn't sound natural. I think..." she said softly, "Because you weren't meant to be so sad."

His hands were under her robe now, holding her in place, and as she kissed him again, with more intensity this time, the pressure of his touch increased. "Maybe you can write a new song, now," she suggested. "A happier one."

"Maybe..." he said, his lips just brushing hers. He left the thought unfinished as the robe fell off her shoulders. "Maybe later..."