Drake turned from the script to his notes, or rather, to the blank paper where his notes should be. He'd read ... he flipped through the thick screenplay, about three-quarters of it, and what did he have to show for it?

Somehow, he just couldn't get started on this project. It was an all too familiar feeling. This time was worse than most, though. The director had trusted him, a friend he'd worked with since his first years in Wilmington. He really didn't want to let the Toreador down, but every time he started to write a note, think of how to implement this not too bad action movie into its component stunt work, he got stuck. He had managed to get as far as reading the script tonight, which was better than last night...

"Nowhere. I'm stuck." He shook his head, tapped the blank pad of paper. "Stunt director's block?"

Drake shook his head again. "No, once I get into it I know I'll enjoy it, I always do. I just don't seem to be able to get started. As soon as I write something I feel like I just can't."

"So, what're you going to do?" She stayed in the room, her eyes still watching him.

Drake's control of his body was complete, except in extreme circumstances. Outwardly he was still, calm, smiling a little. Inwardly he squirmed. "I'll get it done. Tomorrow night, for sure. I'll just take tonight off and get my mind off it for a while." He smiled at Claire a bit more. "Maybe you can help? There's still plenty of time to get it done if I start tomorrow."

"You're going to risk people's lives on something you whip out in four nights?" Claire looked a bit surprised, maybe a little annoyed too.

Drake's inward squirming intensified, changed. "Not the risky parts, I'll probably have to do some of them myself."

"Is that what this is about? An excuse to do more of it yourself? Give yourself a few thrills at the producers' expense?" Claire's eyes narrowed slightly. "No, I don't think I'll be helping with this, Drake."

He pushed back from the table, his chair making a grinding noise as it slid against the floor, and stood. "Claire, please. I need help, something to kick-start me, get me past this..." his gesture took in the script, the blank pad, his procrastination.

Claire made an abrupt sound of annoyance. "Fine," she said. "Do something, a stunt, a scene, I want to see it before you talk to me again, ok? Don't even say one word till you have some work to show me." She turned and left, closing the door behind her with exaggerated care.

He sat down, put pencil to paper, sketched the two men dangling from the rope. One sentence of instructions, then two, and he stopped. Safety measures? He put down the first thing that came to mind. Sketchy work, but he got into it a bit more. It was a good scene, tense, but needed a bit of something. What if the rope caught on something... No, the villain sees them and throws things at them, and one of them gets hit, nearly lets go... pads under them, CGI could fill in the drop below that didn't exist... When he finished he felt much better. He hadn't lost his ability to work.

But, he'd done something, at least... he picked up the papers and carried them out of his study, looking around. After checking the living room and the kitchen, he found Claire's bedroom door closed. He knocked.

"Come in," she called. Drake opened the door and went in. Her smile looked genuinely happy. He realized suddenly how rare that had become, and felt a wave of guilt. She said, "Block all done?"

"Yes, thank you." He smiled at her and waved the papers in one hand. "Right here."

She stood, the smile fading rapidly, and walked over toward him. She stopped a foot away and took the papers from his hand, leafing through them. "Great, looks up to your usual excellent standard." He nodded. "I'm glad it worked, then." She watched him, seemingly expecting something. He waited. Finally she said, "So, go on and finish. Your deadline approaches rapidly."

"But..."

Claire raised her eyebrows slightly. "But, what?"

"Oh... guess I misunderstood." He turned to go. He was halfway out the door...

"Dammit, Drake." The note of exasperation was back. He turned, eagerly. She swore again. Stepping toward him, she shoved him backward, hard, in the chest. Of course, it didn't shift him a fraction of an inch. She ended up close enough to kiss, and he reached for her, but she evaded, stepping backward again. Very softly she said, "I can't believe you need me for this."

He didn't answer. A long silence ensued.

"You know, it just gets worse.... I'm so trapped." Her voice was hoarse, and she seemed poised at the verge of fight or flight, so that he didn't know if she wanted to run away or kill him. Probably both.

His eyes swam red. "I'm sorry."

"No, you're not. Get out." She waited till he had turned to go, and said to his back, "and finish your fucking work. Finish it and then come back. Or don't come back." She slammed the door behind him.