"Come on Chris, get a move on."

Yeah. Like that's gonna work. You can do better than that Sam and you know it.

"We're going to be late."

And this is a bad thing *how* exactly? Quite frankly, from my side of the door it's a good thing. A *very* good thing in fact.

"Are you okay in there Chris?"

My partner's voice reverberates with patently false concern. Lovely. What next? Hmm... Sarcasm or idle threats? Think I'll go for the threats. There's only so much enforced waiting Sam can take.

"I really am getting quite worried out here. Have you had an accident with a zip or something? Bad hair day perhaps? Do I need to be calling an ambulance?"

Damn! He went the sarcasm route. Smug bastard. It's okay for him. He's not...

Fuck it.

Nowhere is this in my job and person specification. Malone can take his 'other duties as required' and shove it up his... ah... Let's just say he can shove it somewhere uncomfortable and leave it at that.

"I'm not going," I mutter, staring numbly into the mirror. My reflection, for it's not like it could be anyone else's, stares back, taunting me. "I've... ah... I've got a headache and think it would be for the best if I just went straight to bed. You go. Have fun. I'll see you later."

"Nice try," Sam replies, hammering on the door. "If you don't get a move on Malone will ensure that you have more than a headache to worry about. Hey, how long do you reckon his revenge would last? I could be wrong but I think he'd be gunning for you for a fortnight at *least*."

"Don't care," I retort, sighing. "It'd be worth it." The way I'm seeing --my reflection -- things I think just about *anything* would have to be preferable to being seen in public looking like this.

"Get over it Chris," Sam, my ever kind, loving and caring partner states --I fail to see how -- cheerfully. "I'll give you five seconds to get your arse out of there before I break down the door and carry you kicking and screaming to the car."

"You choose *now* of all times to let your kinky side show?" I reply facetiously, hesitantly backing away from the mirror. He would too. Knock the door down that is. And, well, tonight's going to suck enough without having some DIY door repairs thrown in for good measure. "Promise me you won't laugh," I add, knowing that I'm wasting my breath, as I slowly open the door.

Wonderful.

Sam doesn't laugh so much as his eyes bug out of his head and his jaw suddenly finds itself saying hello to his knees. I'd find his reaction comical if I wasn't the one causing it.

"You..."

Here it comes.

"You look like..."

Come on Sammy. Spit it out.

No?

Okay. Fine. Laugh a bit more. See if I care.

"You look like a Barbie doll masquerading as Robin Hood!"

Oh tee-hee. How amusing. How very droll.

The fact that I think the exact same thing doesn't mean squat. "Have you quite finished?" I pout, bending down and making a point of pulling up my knee-high leather boots.

"Just give me another couple of minutes and I should be fine," Sam wheezes, wiping away tears of laughter. "Honestly Chris, you look... you look..."

"Like a flat chested Barbie doll labouring under the delusion that she's Robin Hood," I complain. "I know and I heard it the first time. Thanks for pointing it out to me though. Much appreciated."

"Cheer up," Sam replies brightly, finally calming down and favouring me with a smile. "So long as they've seen the movie they'll know who you're supposed to be. The Barbie likeness aside, the costume does the job more than adequately. And... well... ah... the boots are something else again."

"Is it too late to put my hand up to be an Orc?" I sigh, resisting the urge to whip my wig off and, just for the sheer hell of it, stomping it to death. "An Orc would be good. All that make-up would make me completely unrecognisable and, well, I have to say that I'm all for being unrecognisable."

"Way too late," Sam states airily, reaching out and running his fingers through my far too long and far too blond wig. "God that feels disgusting," he continues, static cling causing strands of the hair to cling to his fingers. "All smooth and... urgh... I'm stuck!"

"You should try wearing the damn thing," I reply, batting his hand away and trying to smooth the hair back down again. "It's so hot and scratchy that I feel like I've got nits or something equally as gross. The whole outfit simply defies comment. It's alright for you. I mean, look at you. All ruggedly handsome and valiant."

"You really think I look ruggedly handsome?" Sam smiles hopefully, preening and fishing for compliments.

"Think about it," I snort, not in the mood to feed my partner's ego. "Look at me. I'm an elf. I'm of the opinion that we elves would think that just about anything that didn't look like a Barbie doll was ruggedly handsome. Hell, even those midget ass Hobbit's look more masculine than we do. Let's face it, I'm probably Middle Earth's equivalent of rent boy."

Sam laughs. "Expensive?" he queries blithely. "Would a mere mortal Ranger such as myself be able to afford your services?"

"Ask me later," I murmur coyly, my mood lightening. "If I survive the night I'm confident I can offer you a good deal."

"Then I'll personally ensure that you make it through the night unscathed," Sam purrs, his voice loaded with promise. "Come along Legolas, Malone --oops, I mean Gandalf -- awaits our presence."

"Lead the way oh great Aragorn," I respond mock dramatically, my fickle mind quashing the thought of the next few hours and moving straight into what we'll get up to when it's all over and done with.

Mmm... Every cloud has a silver lining. Even one consisting of an incredibly lame ass fancy dress themed quiz night.

~*~

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...

Ooops. Damn. Wrong fandom.

Let me try again.

When Mr Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton.

Better. Close even. But not entirely there.

When Mrs Cherie Blair of Number Ten Downing Street announced that she was wanting to raise money for a sobering up unit, needless to say one of special magnificence, in Camden there was much ass kissing and bending over down amongst the lesser ranks.

There! Got it.

The Prime Minister's wife comes up with some pathetic fund raising idea and, instead of someone taking the time out to kindly inform her that her 'vision' sucks, everyone immediately thinks it's a *marvellous* concept and vows to do whatever it will take to guarantee its success. I mean, *please*. Give me a fucking break. If Mrs Sad And Lonely Housewife came up with the idea and presented it to the PTA -- who weren't actually contemplating veering away from the tried and true bake sale anyway -- she would have been laughed out of the meeting. And, well, quite rightly so. It's a *stupid* idea. Quiz nights are painful enough as it is without throwing fucking costumes and themes into the mix as well.

Costumes. Themes. Quiz night. Even thinking about it is enough to make my head hurt. Hell's going to have nothing on it. Various law enforcement and emergency services agencies, all dressed up to represent some sort of nightmarish children's party, and having to answer silly bloody trivia questions all in the name of charity. Christ, could it actually get any worse?

Of course it could.

The themes aren't random. Oh no. Like everything else about this spectre of hell they've been carefully monitored, dot pointed, and listed. Each different agency gets their very own special theme. But wait! There's more. Each theme is distinctly sci-fi or fantasy related. MI6 get the pleasure of running around looking like rejects from Hogwarts, the Met --unfairly -- get to dress up as characters from Star Wars, Interpol are living long and prospering as Trekkies, and so on and so forth. For reasons that to this day escape me, CI5 have the dubious honour of being dumped in the middle of, well, Middle Earth.

Yay for us.

Jumping the bandwagon anyone?

You can't move these days without encountering the four-eyed Harry Potter or luminous eyed Frodo staring at you from buses, billboards, newspapers, etc. Just about you name it and the movie mogul Powers That Be have franchised it. I swear I wasn't hallucinating, although God knows I wish I was, when I saw Harry Potter toilet paper in Tesco's the other day. What next? Hogwarts condoms? Or, dare I say it, Lord Of The Rings lubricant?

For sheer audacity I have to begrudgingly admit that Mrs Blair -- who we all know looks suspiciously like some sort of mutant pixie anyway -- is on to a winner. Ten teams of ten, at one hundred pounds a head (kill me now... I'm actually paying money to suffer this horror) equals ten thousand pounds without even trying. Then there's all the side splittingly excruciating *games* that will be played throughout the night (all of which will require a *donation* to take part in) and, what I'm really looking forward to, the auction. And the reason I'm looking forward to the auction is not so I can pay five times more for something, in the name of charity of course, that I don't want but because it's going to herald the end of the evening. I'm not even at the convention centre yet and I'm already counting down how long it will be before I'm en route back home again.

Malone, having had it made clear to him that attendance was non negotiable, insisted, after the call for volunteers failed miserably, that Sam and I attend. I tried everything I could think of to get out of it. You name it and I tried it. I made decidedly unamusing jokes about Lord Of The Rings, proclaimed to all and sundry that I'm actually incredibly thick and that making me go would be wasting a seat far better taken up by someone intelligent and, when this all failed, I even went so far as to offer to man the office. Unfortunately nothing worked. I half expected Sam, who I'm quietly positive is still bearing a grudge over that time we were paired during a game of Trivial Pursuit after one of Backup's dinner parties and --all because (so sue me) I didn't know what team won the 1960 Superbowl -- I caused him to lose, to back me up, but no. If he had to suffer the shame of being made to dress up like some freak then so did I. End of story.

My partner, fuck knows why, is quite partial to quiz nights and trivia questions. If not for the costume wearing part of tonight's proceedings I think it's fairly safe for me to say that Sam would have been looking forward to going. I, on the other hand, loathe the things. The kindest thing I usually have to say about them is that they offer the perfect excuse to get pissed. Given the charity we're raising money for, I don't even have that out tonight. Whatever way I look at it, I'm well and truly stuck. No alcohol, a mental block when faced with hundreds of inane questions and, for the cherry on top of everything, I'm dressed as an elf.

Spencer, who's actually proud to admit that he's a member of the Tolkien Society, says that the costumes were allocated entirely randomly but I don't believe him for a second. If that's the case then how did Malone get to be very old and very wise Gandalf, huh? Not to mention how did Richards, who Spencer was having a tiff with the day the costumes were handed out, end up having to be an Orc, the ugliest and nastiest costume of them all? Then there's Spencer himself. While I wouldn't thank him for having to be a hairy footed Hobbit he seems just a tad *too* delighted with being Frodo, who, strangely enough, has been peering out at me from his screen saver for the last couple of months.

Random my butt.

I think, although I have no proof to back this belief up, that Sam might have bribed Spencer into letting him be Aragorn. If he didn't then Spencer might just have feelings towards my partner that he'd better damn well keep to himself. Still in denial about the whole sorry mess, I paid no attention to the costume allocating until, as I was sitting there one afternoon minding my own business and playing Solitaire, out of nowhere a long blond wig was placed on my head and I was informed that I was to be Legolas, an elf with a thing for archery and who could advertise Pantene in his spare time.

Unbelievable.

Just unbelievable.

I hope these drunken bums that Mrs Blair is allegedly saving appreciate what I'm being made to go through on their behalf.

~*~

I stare at Sam as though what just came out of his mouth was a stream of Elvish expletives, refusing to believe that I heard him correctly. "You're joking," I finally manage to murmur hopefully.

Please tell me you're joking.

"Nope." Sam shakes his head and points at the petrol gauge. "We're well and truly out of petrol. Didn't you notice the red light, you know, the '*warning* you're out of petrol' one when you parked the car?"

"Er... No," I reply, scowling. "Given the quiz night from hell looming over me I have to say that petrol was about the last thing on my mind."

"Seeing as that we'll be lucky to make it to the bright lights of the Esso I can see coming up I'm stating here and now that I recommend it become the first and most important thing on your mind," Sam mutters. "Unless, of course, you're harbouring some sort of delusional desire to get out and push looking like that."

Oh hee. Oh ha.

"Smart ass," I grumble, only just stopping myself from sighing with relief when the car splutters to a stop next to a petrol pump. Phew. A small mercy is better than no mercy at all.

"Well, go on," Sam states, waving towards the pump. "What are you waiting for?"

"Me?" I squeak, shaking my head adamantly. "You've got to be joking. I ain't getting out of the car until we're where we're going. You get it. You look far less point-at-able than I do."

"Not joking," Sam replies, having the nerve to flash a smirk at me. "The car's booked out in your name, you were the last to drive it and, as such, you were the one who failed to see that it was desperately in need of petrol. Ergo my dear elf, fill her up."

I shake my head again. "No. Uh-uh. No way. I mean... Oh God Sam! There are people everywhere. You can't make me do this," I plead, gazing out the windscreen, mortified with how many people are milling about. Either this petrol station is a hub of excitement or these people seriously have nothing better to do with their time.

"I'd hurry if I were you Chris," Sam murmurs calmly. "The longer you sit here having an irrational panic attack the later we'll be and the more tetchy Malone will be."

"Please," I whine, dredging up a hopeful smile. "Come on Sam. You look fine, whereas I look like a Barbie doll... They'll laugh at me."

"And Malone will send you to Siberia if you don't get a move on," Sam responds, reaching across and opening the door for me. "Besides, let 'em laugh. They look as though they need some cheer in their lives."

"Some partner you make," I complain, reluctantly undoing my seatbelt and clambering slowly out of the car. To my relief no one appears to show me the slightest bit of attention. For a moment I dare to hope that things are going to pass without incident. Then, as I look at the pump, things immediately go downhill. The credit card function on the pump isn't working, which means...

Fuck.

Which means I'll have to go inside the bright shiny attendant's hut to pay. Damn, damn, damn! Muttering under my breath, I start to fill the car with petrol, all the time studiously staring at my feet. A car horn tooting behind me tells me that I'm no longer invisible and I stop muttering so I can concentrate on imagining ways that I'd like to pay Sam back.

"Hey Chris," Sam states facetiously through his open window, "for once it isn't paranoia. They *are* all staring at you."

Narrowing my eyes, I smile balefully and use my free hand to flick my hair back. "The more grief you give me the more expensive *later* becomes," I reply haughtily. "Just keep that in mind when you're next laughing at my expense."

Sam's smile slips. "Um... Who's laughing," he offers blandly. "Not me. I was only passing comment."

"Yeah, yeah," I mutter, removing the petrol nozzle from the tank and returning it to the pump. Digging some money out of a pocket hidden in my tunic, I take a deep breath and walk over to the shop.

It starts the second I step foot through the door.

"Daddy, daddy! Look! It's Legless," a little girl in a Builder Bob dressing gown giggles, pointing at me and beaming. She, unlike daddy, seems delighted to see me. Daddy, who gives the impression that he bides his time between wrestling and playing rugby, however looks like he'd like nothing more than to beat me to a pulp.

"No it's not darlin'," he growls, giving me the evil eye. "It's just some wanker dressed up as a fairy. Come on love, let's get outta here before more of 'is kind show up."

*My* kind?

How dare he? Inbred waste of space.

Knowing all too well that I'm risking life and limb, I smile coquettishly at the rock-ape and purr, "I'm an elf hun', not a fairy."

Daddy glowers at me with barely contained rage in his piggy eyes. If not for his daughter I honestly think he wouldn't give a second thought to going me. Leaning in close, and breathing foul breath directly in my face, he whispers, "Faggot," quiet enough for only me to hear before picking up his daughter and stalking out of the shop.

More offended by his breath than his insult, I plaster a fake smile on my face and continue towards the counter. The half comatose teenager with the bad skin behind the till doesn't even give me a second glance. He merely grunts how much I owe him before snatching the money out of my hand and slamming the change down on the counter top. I have this feeling that I could be done up like a Vegas showgirl, all sequinned g-string and feathery headpiece, and he still wouldn't take any notice of me.

Picking up my change, I resist the urge to bolt back to the car and force myself to casually stroll out of the shop. Stepping outside, and not looking where I'm going, I'm almost ran over by an overly modified Nissan Skyline driven by a barely out of his teens drug dealer. He stares at me, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. He's so stunned to see an elf walking in front of him that he refrains from yelling abuse for not looking where I was going and simply stares. Failing that he's off his face and he honestly thinks I'm female and the cogs are whirring in his brain as he toys with the idea of attempting to pull me.

Suddenly feeling contrary, I blow him a kiss before undulating, with just the slightest bit of emphasis placed on my hips, back to the car. A blaring horn pierces the air but this time it isn't directed at me. Nope. It's from a middle aged man in one of those Godforsaken Smart Cars who's wanting the Skyline to get out of his way.

For no reason in particular I'm smiling by the time I reach the car.

"Making friends I see," Sam comments as I get in.

"Shut up and drive," I reply, still smiling as I pull on my seatbelt.

The night can only get better, right?

*Right*?

~*~

I take two steps into the hall before, without warning, slamming on the brakes and causing Sam to walk straight into my back. "Okay. Seen enough. Ready to go now," I proclaim, suddenly thankful that alcohol isn't allowed. If things look this bad sober then I shudder to think how scary they'd look after a bottle or five of Bud. Eurgh. It actually doesn't bear thinking about.

"You wish," Sam replies slowly, barely masking his own horror. "Actually, make that *I* wish. They've... ah... they've really gone all out, haven't they?"

"It looks... Oh God. I don't know. It looks..." My mind quite literally boggling, I can't think of a term descriptive enough and fall silent.

"It looks like one of those sad and scary fan conventions you see on television sometimes," Sam murmurs, moving around to stand by my side, his expression deceptively blank.

Not being able to come up with something better, I nod. "That'll do," I agree, sighing. "Besides, it's a hell of a lot more polite than anything I would have used to describe it."

"Shall we go and find our table?" Sam mutters, showing no inclination to actually move.

"Just give me a minute or two to recover," I reply, not quite knowing where to look. "I haven't acclimatised yet." Everyone milling about I have to say is done up to the nines. The costumes they're all sporting are spot on. If the charity makes as much as London's costume shops have out of the night then Mrs Blair should be laughing. Most people are unrecognisable from their every day mundane selves. Given the way I feel about the majority of the law enforcement agencies we come in contact with this is a good thing.

"Hey, over there," Sam states, gently elbowing me in the ribs and pointing in the direction of a group of people milling about it good old khaki combat trousers and black t-shirts. "Who are they supposed to be and why couldn't we have been whoever they are?"

I scowl, wondering exactly the same thing. "I reckon they're meant to be SG-1," I respond, inanely jealous of how normal they look. "You know, Stargate. They're arguably air force and fall pretty much into the television sci-fi category. As for why we weren't lucky enough to be them, I have one word for you... Spencer. Remember? Mr 'Tolkien Is My Idol'. If Malone hadn't agreed to CI5 going as Lord Of The Rings I think he was going to suffer some sort of breakdown."

Sam sighs heavily. "That's right. Silly me. How could I possibly have forgotten a performance like that..."

Pushing thoughts of Stargate out of my head -- and in particular quashing the idea of only having to stick a pair of Harry Potter glasses on Sam and, hey presto, immediately having a damn fine Daniel (floppy hair incarnation, of course) -- I continue gazing around me. To my astonishment I catch sight of my old friend Superintendent Leonard, with his ever present shadow Sergeant Rogers scurrying after him, striding across the hall. Both men are dressed as Obi-Wan Kenobi. The Superintendent being the Sir Alec Guinness version while the Sergeant appears to fancy himself as being able to fill Ewan McGregor's boots.

"Look," I mutter, pointing towards them. "It's our friends Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum, otherwise known as the greatest love story never told."

"Oh! Do you mind?" Sam snorts, grimacing. "I'd really rather you didn't follow that particular line of thought as, well... No. Let's not go there."

"Aw," I mock pout. "You mean you don't want me to continue? Come on! Think about it. They're like Smithers and Burns from The Simpsons. Or Stuart and Vince from Queer As Folk, or, if you'd rather the crap American version, Brian and Mikey. One forever doomed to pant unrequited after the other. Hey! Come back here! I hadn't finished."

Sam, not listening and clearly backing up his request for me to stop painting mental images of Leonard and Rogers getting it on (which I have to confess isn't something I really want to think about in any great detail either. Joking about it is one thing, but taking it further? Er... No. I don't think so), starts to walk away from me. Not wanting to stand around looking pathetic by myself, I hurry after him, ignoring the wolf whistles coming from the two MIBs to my left. Filthy perverts. Anyone would think they've never seen a man wearing a long blond wig and dressed up as an elf before.

"Was that your subtle way of getting me to shut up," I query, catching up with Sam.

"Ten points for observation," Sam retorts, scanning the rapidly filling hall until he spots CI5s designated table and making a beeline for it. As with everyone else, our fellow agents look quite spectacular. Malone in particular makes a terrific Gandalf. Not, mind you, that I feel the urge to share this with him. His opinions matching mine in respect to the whole costume wearing side of things, I think I'd be playing with fire if I told him how good he looked. Admiring everyone's costumes in turn, I waste ten seconds of my life working out that it's Harley under the Ringwraith's hood before slowly sitting down and resisting the urge to look under the table to see whether Spencer, as Frodo, has glued hair to his feet.

The faces that I can clearly make out look -- with the notable exception of Spencer who's giving the impression that all his Christmases have come at once -- as shell-shocked as I feel. Even Backup, who looks beautiful as Arwen, looks as though she'd rather be just about anywhere else. Malone looks to be in a trance. Well, either that or he's actually got an earpiece in and he's monitoring the goings on back at HQ. I can't tell whether Richards' is scowling or whether it's just his Orc mask giving him the permanently pissed off expression.

"Sam, Chris," Spencer beams, "or should I say Aragorn and Legolas! You both look terrific and I'm sure this is going to be a great night. One that you'll remember for years to come."

I smile wanly in response, keeping my true thoughts to myself.

Remember? It's the kind of thing I think you could spend the rest of your life paying to forget.

Oh...

Oh dear...

Case in point.

The country's leader dressed up as Luke Skywalker... Farm Boy, Tatooine, Luke Skywalker. Unbecoming poncho and all. You would have thought he could have at least gone for the all black, as classy as it gets for a Jedi, ensemble, but no, he went for the geek look. Peachy. Just peachy.

And, oh look, there's Mrs Blair as Leia, donut hairdo and all.

Now I honestly think I've seen everything.

~*~

Nine sets of eyes stare at me, amazement written all over their owner's faces.

"*What*?" I exclaim, squirming in my seat and well and truly not liking coming under such close scrutiny.

"I can't believe you knew that," Backup murmurs slowly, shaking her head.

"It's trivia," I protest, wishing I'd never opened my mouth. "This is a trivia night... What's the big deal?"

"It's not the sort of thing anyone expected you to know," Harley interjects, his voice coming out all hollow and disembodied from the depths of his hood.

"Yeah Chris," Richards adds, unnerving me slightly with the way his eyes look through the Orc mask. "You don't look the sort to have a thing for Disney movies."

"I don't have a *thing* for Disney movies," I sigh, just waiting for Sam to pipe up with the fact that I have most of the animated classics on DVD... For no other reason than I *can*, of course. "I just happened to know the answer, okay? Perhaps I'm wrong. Have you ever thought of that? I've been wrong on just about every other question so why not this one too?"

"I say he's right," Sam states calmly, winking at me slyly. "No one else has offered anything and we need an answer so I say we go with it."

"Me too," Spencer agrees, writing down my answer on the response sheet in front of him. "O'Malley and Duchess were the two cats who got together in Disney's The Aristocats. Done!"

"I still can't believe you knew that," Backup mutters, still staring at me.

For the umpteenth time this evening I can only smile wanly in response. Next time they can answer the damn questions themselves. Seriously. That's the last time I share anything with them. I feel a big enough git as it is without everyone questioning my wealth of useless information. So I happen to like The Aristocats, what of it? In the grand scheme of things it's as useful as knowing every winner of the FA cup for the last decade like Davidson does, or the number one selling song for the past five years like Backup does. Malone... Well both he and Sam appear to know lots and lots of pointless trivia and no one stares at them when they issue forth with the answer to some particularly stupid question.

I mean, who cares which ear Van Gogh cut off. Not me. That's for sure. As for naming, in order, not from the sun but in size, the planets in the solar system? Talk about futile.

Oh God.

Mr Blair and the leader of the opposition party, dressed -- of course -- as Darth Vader are having a mock light sabre battle on stage. Their light sabres aren't the sort that come ready equipped with sound effects so they're making them themselves.

There's just something not quite right in watching the leader of Britain making 'whoosh, whoosh' noises.

Is it time to go home yet?

~*~

Pah.

Taylor knows what won the Oscar for best film in 1980 and no one stares at her as though she's just grown a second head.

Same goes for Spencer who knows the exact number of people who died on Titanic.

Wonderful. Malone can name all the Great Lakes of North America in five seconds flat and that's just fine with everyone.

And let's not forget Sam. My partner knows the name of the doctor who performed the worlds first ever heart transplant. How wonderful is that?

Then there's Richards. He knows that the Mallard is the world's fastest steam train and that it's preserved in the National Rail Museum in York.

Excellent.

I'm happy for them. Ecstatic in fact.

I think I'll just sit here and sulk. I'm obviously not needed.

~*~

This can't honestly be happening. I'm having a nightmare. I have to be. I mean... Surely. There's no way this can be real. It's...

It's unnatural. That's what it is.

"Sit down if you have brown eyes," the immensely annoying MC titters, waving his arms around for no good reason. I wish that the arrows that are part of my costume were real, as I'd quite like to shoot the wanker. Love himself? Sheesh. Does he what. I'm actually surprised he's been able to stay on stage for as long as he has without having had to take a mirror break. The less said however about his far too tight Star Trek costume the better. For God's sake! While I'm not a Trekkie I'd bet my last pound on Spock never having suffered from VPL syndrome. Unbecoming had nothing on it.

I remain standing on my chair, feigning fascination with the floor and attempting to hide behind my hair. Whoever I wronged in a former life in order to be being put through this hell had to be important. That's for sure.

I hate these so-called games. Adults, unless under the influence of narcotics or alcohol, should not behave like this.

"Stand up if you think I look funky in my costume."

*Funky*? Who the fuck does this idiot think he is?

Heh. Risking a quick glance around me I note that no one stands up. Funny that.

Spock pouts, his beady eyes shooting daggers. "Sit down if you're having a good time," he mutters.

Damn. As much as I want to sit down and get this the hell over with I --foolishly -- vowed to myself when I reluctantly stood up that I'd play their silly game with complete honesty. Needless to say, given that I'm only one of four remaining standing, I regret this vow. I want to sit down. My usual competitive streak is AWOL as I really don't feel the need for the cheap and nasty scotch that they're offering as a prize but, for some unknown reason, I can't bring myself to simply give up. This could, I feel, have something to do with the fact that I can feel Malone's gaze burning holes in my kneecaps and don't really want to think about what he'd have to say if I called it quits. CI5 agents, not even in relation to excruciatingly pathetic games played during an excruciatingly pathetic quiz night, are not quitters. Nor is the organisation going to go away empty handed. While my desire to win is lacking, Malone's certainly isn't. If we don't beat MI6, who we're currently level with in respect to the trivia part of the night, then I have this sinking feeling that everyone on the table, bar Malone, may soon be finding themselves manning the first ever CI5 office in the South Pole.

"Oooh! Looks like it's down to only four contenders," MC Spock announces excitedly. "I wonder who the lucky winner will be!"

Yeah. Whatever. Get on with it. I'm beginning to feel the proverbial bunny trapped in the headlights of an oncoming truck here.

"Okay! Humans and aliens, will this be the last question of the evening? Is this the one to give us a winner?"

Please God. Anything to stop the misery.

Spock gives an imaginary drum roll as I only just resist the urge to shoot an imaginary arrow at him. "Sit down if you're..." Spock pauses dramatically before -- *finally* -- continuing, "wearing underwear!"

Shit.

Teal'c, the baddie from Farscape (the one who looks like a cross between Skeletor from the old He Man cartoon and Emperor Palpatine) and the chick from The Fifth Element all sit down.

I don't. I can't. Everyone in the hall is staring at me as I stand on my chair, quite literally rooted to the spot. Damn this stupid honesty vow! I can feel Malone's gaze moving from my knees and travelling up my thighs without even needing to see it. What he's thinking is not one of those things I *ever* want to know.

"Congratulations Mr Keel," Malone murmurs blandly, "you do CI5 proud."

"Indeed Chris," Sam smirks, his gaze, unless I'm mistaken, fixed directly at my crotch. "I must say I'm truly proud to call you my partner."

What's that saying again? If you can't think of anything polite to say then don't say anything at all... Something like that anyway. And, well, for the first time in my life I think I might actually pay some heed to it.

Anyway, I'd like to see any of them fit underwear under these silly glorified tight things. Christ knows it's not like I didn't try.

~*~

"And the winner of tonight's charity fundraiser," the prime minister proclaims, thankfully sans light sabre from centre stage, "is... No. Wait. Before I get to the winner I'd just like to thank everyone for attending tonight and for making the evening the unqualified success that is. Thanks to your kind generosity and deep pockets we have raised close to fifty thousand pounds for the unit. Now, I think that deserves a round of applause, don't you?"

Our spirits broken by the incredibly long and slow moving four hours that we've been trapped here, we all clap dutifully. I clap so hard that I make my hands hurt and I do this in order to wake myself up. The auction went on *forever*. I didn't think it was ever going to end and actually dozed off during the fifteen minutes it took to get some poor sucker to pay five times the shop price for a DVD player.

"Okay, and back to the announcement you've all been waiting for," Blair continues brightly, his ferrety little face positively aglow with good cheer. "The winner of the quiz night, by only one point from both CI5 and MI6, is... Interpol! Come on everyone! How about another round of applause!"

Malone, his face like a thundercloud, calmly folds his hands together and makes a point of not even giving so much as a token gesture clap. You'd think he'd be happy that MI6 didn't beat us, but no, apparently not. Glancing across to the MI6 table I see that Malone's counterpart, dressed as Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts and not looking overly dissimilar to Gandalf, looks about as delighted as Malone does. This leads me to believe that they most likely had their own wager on which organisation was better and that being equal is nowhere good enough.

Oh well. Shit happens. My only concern being that it's finally over, we could have come last for all I really care.

"Is it really over?" I whisper to Sam. "Are we really free from purgatory?"

"Thank God almighty we're free at last," Sam replies softly, his enjoyment of the evening having soured when he and Spencer had fallen into an argument over something or other to do with Manchester United. Or was it Manchester City? Don't know. Don't care.

"Take me home then," I murmur softly, coyly twisting a lock of long blond hair around my finger.

Sam obediently stands up and starts saying his farewells to everyone at the table. Spencer almost looks as gutted as Malone does. Not wanting to risk engaging Malone in conversation for fear of coming on the receiving end of a 'you all could have done better' lecture, I cautiously mutter a goodnight to him before waving at everyone else and moving away from the table. The rush for the exit is quite incredible, everyone apparently in as big of a hurry as I am to be out of here. Stepping aside to allow a helmetless Storm Trooper to stalk past, I let Sam catch up and fall in step with him.

My partner looks at me with a distinct gleam of interest in his eyes. "So, are you really not wearing any underwear?" he whispers.

I smile, my short attention span already relegating the quiz night to forgettable history. "Play your cards right and you might just find out," I reply, pretending to think for a moment before adding, "Although I don't want to hear it if you've developed a thing for the wig as it's gone the second I get in the car."

Sam shakes his head, returning my smile. "Nope. If I wanted a long haired blond I'd have one," he responds, giving my hand a quick squeeze although we're still surrounded by stampeding aliens and the like.

"And to think people say that romance is dead," I mock grumble, my mood instantly lightening as we make our way back to the car. While up until a couple of minutes ago my evening was showing every sign of being a complete and utter write off I suddenly have hopes of it improving in the very near future.

Improving *greatly* in fact.

I do, after all, have to prove my claim of we elves being Middle Earth's equivalent of rent boys.

And hey, if that isn't something to look forward to then I don't know what is.