(no subject)

[katallison]

I've been following the "Ask My Characters a Question" meme, but had felt a little diffident about inviting such questioning, I suppose because it presumes people have that level of interest in my characters. However, shellmidwife said she had a question or two for Fraser, and so I'll toss the door open--if you want to ask any of these people anything, go to town! I warn you, though, that they're not always responsive to the questions I ask them (usually along the lines of "And so where in the hell have you been for the last three months??")

Oh, and re: shell's other question in a different entry--confirm, but truly it's no big deal.

Comments

[twistedchick]

Happy Birthday! ::sending you virtual chocolate cake::

And a question for Ray Vecchio from "Luck" -- did you ever tell Fraser what happened, and if so, how did you do it? And if you didn't tell him, did you ever tell anyone in Chicago?

[katallison.livejournal.com]

Mmm, cake! ::munching happily:: Thanks, Kit! And as for the question ...

<stepping up to the mike, clearing throat> Yes, well, I don't believe in re-opening the past. After all, I was different, times were different, the whole bloody *world* was--

Methos, for chrissake get away from the mike, not everything is about you, you know. Jeez! Paging the other guy with the nose...

Uh...what can I tell you? I'm supposed to open *that* can of worms? You think Fraser would've understood that? It's not like I had any *time* to talk to him anyway, five minutes back in town and he's blown my cover and getting me shot and it's just like old times, right? What he knows is--he knows I look out for him, and that's all he has to know, him or anyone else. The rest of it, I'll carry the weight on that.

What I did do--this'll sound stupid, but what I did after I got out of the hospital, I went down to St. Simon the Apostle, way down on the south side where they hardly speak *English*, even, and I hit a booth and told some old priest I'll never see again the whole story. I mean, I got no idea why I did that, it's not like I stuck around to collect the lecture and the penances, I just dumped it and got the hell out.

I've never told Stella either. She knows I get the bad dreams sometimes, 'cause Florida's a little too much like Vegas, but at least it's not the desert, thank god. I can deal with it.

[aerye.livejournal.com]

Okay, I'm biting. ::g::

How does EotR's Fraser define love?

And happy, happy and all that stuff.

[katallison.livejournal.com]

Thanks for the wishes! And, uh, Constable? You're on...

<standing stiffly at mike, deer in headlights> Er. Yes, well. If we consult Webster's Unabridged, the first definition given--

Fraser! *Your* definition, please. And nobody wants to know what the Inuit think about love, either, OK?

Right you are. Well, then. Love, as I construe it, is the force that binds each individual to something larger than himself, or herself of course. It is what leads each of us to think beyond mere ego and petty self-interest, and as such enables us to move beyond the savagery and greed of our baser natures.

There are, to be sure, many different sorts of love. Love of family and friends, of course, but also love of home, the force that binds us to a particular terrain and landscape and climate. Love of duty, the force that directs our effort and skill towards the service of a higher cause, the protection of others and of the common good.

And of course there is also romantic love, which--especially in tandem with the sexual expression thereof--has been fixated on and celebrated by our culture to a point that seems at times fetishistic. I don't wish to disparage either its importance or its power, of course. But it is far from being the only kind of love, nor even the most important.

Thank you for your inquiry. <stepping back from microphone, with a decisive nod>

[theodosia.livejournal.com]

A beautiful woman's corpse found in a vacant lot outside of Las Vegas is such a perfect setup for a CSI investigation, you know. Seriously, it would be a perfect gen story for them -- they find out that the woman is a wanted fugitive, start talking to law enforcement personnel who have dealt with her in the past, including one Ray Vecchio back in Chicago, and also the Mountie who brought her in the first time... also stationed in Chicago? And then somebody on the investigation team gets hold of an old file picture of Ray V., who =just happens= to bear a striking resemblance to the mob boss who ran the casino where the deceased was last seen alive. But the investigator who flew to Chicago to speak to "Ray Vecchio" reports a guy who bears very little resemblance to the picture or the mob boss....

Too bad I've only watched two episodes of CSI. I'm sure not going to write it.

Happy birthday!!!

[the-star-fish.livejournal.com]

Oh, I would *so* watch/read that. Marg Helgenberger is on my short-list.

Cool idea.

[katallison.livejournal.com]

Oh, Theodosia, wow, this is *brilliant*! ::wheels spinning furiously:: I mean, I've never watched CSI at all, but even just as a straight follow-up story, that would be fascinating.

I actually drafted a whole additional section of the story where Vecchio plants the gun on one of his underlings who's being troublesome and gets him framed for the hit. But then I decided that distracted from the main story I was telling, so it got axed. You're right, though, the aftermath presents some wonderful possibilities....

[the-star-fish.livejournal.com]

Happy Birthday, even if it's not a big deal.

I'd like to ask EotR Ray "What the shit? What were you thinking?" but it'd be purely rhetorical.

And also an opportunity to slap him one upside the head.

[katallison.livejournal.com]

Hey! *Ow*!!! <rubbing head>

What was I thinking? You want to know what I was thinking, lady? I'm gonna assume that what you're asking about is why the hell I decided to try staying up there in the first place, because that's the only mysterious thing in the whole deal, and all I can say is I must've still been having the hypothermia and it affected my brain or something.

Because getting *out* of there, that one was a no-brainer, and it's not just 'cause of the weather (lemme ask you, *you* ever been up there in winter?), and it's not just 'cause that place makes the hick town where Welsh's brother lives look like midtown Manhattan.

Partly, it's--what the hell was I supposed to do up there, sit around on my ass being the hausfrau and dusting the knickknacks and waiting for Fraser to come home from work? Hah? You got any *idea* how boring that is?

But even so -- I mean, I could've handled the cold and the hickness and the boringness, it's not like I'm some kind of a wimp, I could take all that, except for the fact that -- when you come right down to it and cut the crap, Fraser didn't want me there. He'll spin you all kinds of BS if you let him, but nail him to the truth and smack him in the head and he'll tell you. He might've thought he did, to start out with, but he learned better. And I may be dumb, but one thing I've learned is don't stick around where you're not wanted.

Sure, I loved him, and sure, he loved me, but I'll tell you--as fucked in the head as Fraser is in a lot of ways, he's right about one thing. Love's great and all, but it's not the whole deal. Start acting like it is, and you're *screwed.* And that's one thing I finally got straight.

Now, you wanna hit me again? C'mon, I'll get you some gloves, we can go a few rounds. 'Cause you got a good right hook on you, for a chick.

[katallison.livejournal.com]

(Oh, and thanks so much for the birthday wishes!)

[beledibabe.livejournal.com]

No questions -- at least, not at the moment -- but heartfelt birthday wishes!

[katallison.livejournal.com]

Thanks very much, Carla!

[umbo.livejournal.com]

Okay, see, I was thinking along the lines of Starfish's question, but for Fraser, but I think you already answered it in his definition of love. So I'll see if I can come up with another one.

Meanwhile, happy happy!

I am enjoying this so much.

[laurashapiro.livejournal.com]

And I'll play:

I'd like to ask the Fraser of "Roots Rain" why someone ready to leap into danger at every second, like he is, doesn't have the balls to tell Ray how he really feels. (:

And since you insist it's not a big deal, I'll refrain from my impulse of broadcasting this on my own LJ, but you can't escape it here: Happy birthday!

[katallison.livejournal.com]

<aside, a trifle pettishly> For heaven's sake, Ms. Allison, I find it hard to believe that these women really need to know all the details of my private and innermost--oh, all right, very well.

<facing mike, squaring shoulders> Let me, in return, ask you--what purpose would such an act serve? Only the selfish one of indulging my own self-centered feelings. I most sincerely doubt that their revelation would cause anything but discomfort and embarrassment for Ray, and the destruction of our working partnership, which (wholly apart from the personal enjoyment I take in it) has been highly effective in maintaining the law and apprehending miscreants. Its loss would harm others besides ourselves.

And even if, by most unlikely chance, Ray were to return my feelings--well, where would that lead him? Professional obloquy and disgrace, discord with his friends and family, perhaps actual physical hazard; or else a life of deceit and concealment. I would wish neither of those on an enemy, still less on him.

To open my heart to him would not be an act of courage, as you imply, but rather one of cowardice and selfishness. I trust that I have the...well, the "balls," as you put it, to keep a firm grip on the larger scale of priorities, and to realize how low my own egocentric desires rank on that scale.

[imkalena.livejournal.com]

I want to ask Luck Ray: How did it feel?

And: Happy birthday!;)

[katallison.livejournal.com]

<throwing arms out> How did it feel? What kind of question is that? How does it feel when you put down a rabid dog? 'Cause that's all she was. Doesn't mean you *like* it, you just do what's gotta be done, finito, end of story.

<taking a few steps away, pausing, then turning and coming back> OK, so I'll admit, killing somebody, even a fucking monster like her, a guy's going to feel weird about it. But what bothers me--I knew I had to do it, it needed to be done, I'd made her a promise and I was just making good on it, but what bothers me--I should've left the gag on her, OK? Just let the whole deal be about her getting what she deserved, instead of all that other shit getting mixed into it.

When I get the dreams...they're not about pulling the trigger, you know? They're about the other shit that came before that. I didn't want to do it *angry*, is what I'm trying to say. Which I guess doesn't make a lot of sense. Hell with it.

[umbo.livejournal.com]

Okay, here we go. For Ox. How are you liking Austin these days? How's Mattie doing? Care to meet me at Chuy's for some chips and salsa?

And for John. How are you, man? Really? Did you ever send Billy that postcard?

[katallison.livejournal.com]

For Ox. How are you liking Austin these days? How's Mattie doing? Care to meet me at Chuy's for some chips and salsa?

Hi ... uh, Shell? I think I've seen you in the audience at the Tampico, right? Nice to meet you.

Austin's fine, I guess. I don't get out much any more; my driving's gotten kind of erratic, I'm not really safe behind the wheel, and I don't like the way people look at me on the bus, so I mostly stay home, and Chico picks me up each evening, and then drives me home after the gig. I read, and I clean the house--I've got a system, start in the front hall, move into the living room, dust the furniture first, then wipe down the moldings, then vacuum--sorry, I guess that's not very interesting, right? Mattie's doing well; she was afraid the recession would hurt her business but it hasn't been a problem so far. She's learning Tai Chi, and I like to get up early and watch her in the back yard, practicing, and then I go back to sleep when she's done.

Um, meeting up sometime--I don't know, that's a nice idea and thank you, except I'm not very good at meeting people. I have a hard time knowing what to say. Maybe you could come around backstage after a set sometime, I'm usually better after a set. You'd probably like Larry more, to be honest, he's a funny guy. I don't have a lot to say these days.

And for John. How are you, man? Really? Did you ever send Billy that postcard?

::long silence:: . . . Hey. I'm . . . strange to hear from someone. Words. I made it to Mattie's planet, I think. It's very quiet here. No words. Just quiet. And . . . I don't know where Billy is, and I don't have the postage to reach him any more. Sorry. For everything. No more now.

[heuradys.livejournal.com]

For executor Welsh: Has time changed how you feel about the events you related?

[bethbethbeth.livejournal.com]

Good Lord, that's *exactly* the question I was just going to ask!

(Oh, and Kat? Happy Birthday, my dear.)

[yonmei.livejournal.com]

I've got a question for Duncan MacLeod, if he's still around. After Methos left you that morning (http://www.kat.mrks.org/OnefortheRoad.htm), what did you do?

[katallison.livejournal.com]

<Duncan walks to the microphone, looking slightly embarrassed, muttering " Damn it, this is all *your* fault, you know.">

<from offstage: "Yeah, you keep telling yourself that...">

Right. Well, despite the melodrama that some people would have you believe, my sufferings the next morning were mostly from the worst hangover I'd had in decades, doubtless because someone had spiked my drink--

<offstage, indignant> Did not!

--and not because I was experiencing the lovelorn heartache of abandonment or any nonsense like that. After all, I'd only gone hareing off after Methos in the first place because I'd heard there were headhunters on his trail and I was worried about him--

<offstage> Pull the other one, MacLeod, it's got bells on--

--FOOL that I clearly was to be concerned for a minute. <giving a quick glare offstage> So the next day, after I finally was able to move around without my head splitting in two, I phoned the airport, right, and--

<offstage, smugly> Knew it!

<plowing ahead> --and reserved two tickets to St. Maarten. The next day I went and collected Amanda, we flew down, and had a wonderful two weeks. Wonderful. The snorkeling, the sunbathing, the swim-up bar... <somewhat theatrical sigh> Two weeks, as I said, during which I did not once think about Methos--

<offstage, sing-song> That's not what Amanda says!

<bellowing> Oh, shut up! <regaining control, gripping the podium> Anyway, two years later, Joe forwarded me a postcard, which had written on it only "Cold out here, heat me up"--

<offstage, musing> I saw that line somewhere...

--and a return address in a small town in near Vladivostok. When I arrived there, I found that Methos had been put in the local slammer for murder--

<offstage> The Russians have never had much of a sense of humor, you know?

--and it took fifteen thousand dollars in bribes to get him out and on a plane back home.

<offstage, encouragingly> You were splendid, MacLeod. Although your Russian accent could use some--

And the son of a bitch has been hanging around my flat ever since, drinking up my beer, changing my TiVo settings--

<offstage> What are friends for, after all?

<Duncan gathers himself with an effort, gives the audience a curt nod, and strides off>

No bangs or whimpers, please

[sef1029.livejournal.com]

To Methos of September Song:

So, old man, how did your world end?

[katallison.livejournal.com]

Well ... obviously, it hasn't ended yet, as I'm still here to answer questions. Though I don't blame you for the curiosity, since I was clearly having a serious wiggins the night that story occurred. I'm still not quite sure what came over me, but I can tell you that the night of December 31, 1999, Duncan and I had dinner together in a marvelous little back-street bistro in Marseilles. No cellphones, no computers, no TV, if the power flickered at midnight I certainly didn't notice. We had a superb bouillabaisse, and the rest of the evening is a bit fuzzy in my memory, but I definitely woke up the next morning right here on planet earth.

Since then, I've continued to pay attention to the progress toward space colonization, as nothing has occurred to convince me that homo sapiens is going to cease fouling its nest or speeding its own destruction. But I'm no longer having midnight attacks of existential dislocation. I find that 2003 is remarkably like 1993, or 1823 for that matter, or any number of previous decades.

[ardent-muses.livejournal.com]

Hey, Happy Birthday! Hope it's a wonderful day and a great yeat for you! :)

[katallison.livejournal.com]

Thanks so much! It's been a totally wonderful day so far, and I can only hope the rest of the year lives up to it!

[tracy-rowan.livejournal.com]

Here's one for Methos from "Last Set Before Closing": Is it worth it to live thousands of years if you refuse to connect to anything? What price a long, untroubled life?

[katallison.livejournal.com]

Untroubled? Does my life seem to you *untroubled*? With the Gathering coming on, and listen, do you have any idea how hard it is to get decent beer in Antarctica, and--

Oh, all right, it's a reasonable question, I suppose, and deserves an answer. The key point one must never lose sight of is the difference between connection and attachment. The former is unavoidable, as long as one's in this life, and is what makes life possible. The latter's a deathtrap.

Imagine one's self caught in a flood, for example. (And let me just tell you, from experience: un-fun.) You're connected all right, to the water, the shiftings in the current, the debris that comes barrelling down on you. You survive by being utterly attentive to those connections. If you're lucky you connect with a tree, perhaps, which has branches higher than the water level. You don't spend the rest of your life in that tree, but connecting it to it at that moment is critical.

If you're one of those attached people, however--if you sit in your house and say, "I'm not moving, this is *my* house and nothing shall shift me out of it"--then when the flood comes down, you die. If you attach to a tree spar that's not high enough, and refuse to detach and let yourself be moved on downstream when a great chunk of debris is about to hit you, you die as well.

All right, this isn't my greatest metaphor, I'll grant you. But really, that flood is life. And I'm there in the drink with everyone else; except I've a bit more buoyancy than most, I've learned how to stay afloat and simply let the water carry me onward. I am intimately familiar with, connected with, the force of the current at any moment, and the bits of debris in my immediate vicinity. And I am absolutely ready to let them all float on, in whatever direction they're carried.

MacLeod hasn't quite gotten the knack; he takes a terrible buffeting at times, and gets a lungful of water, and sometimes I think he's gone down for good. But he's a strong swimmer, and I have hopes of him.

What will happen when the current brings us to the grand whirlpool of the Gathering--that I can't tell you, sorry, prefer not to think about it, if it's all the same.

Happy birthday to you!

[yeungmaisu.livejournal.com]

Happy birthday, Kat! I hope you're having a great day!

[katallison.livejournal.com]

Thank you very much! (And sorry for late reply.) It was a really wonderful day, and I hope the rest of the year follows suit. *g*

[thepouncer.livejournal.com]

Happy belated birthday - I hope it was a wonderful one.

I read Luck while slacking at work last week, and adored the story. I have to ask The Bookman, though - when did you decide to kill Victoria? Was it the instant you saw her, or did you just know you had to do something that moment and the plan came to you later?