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      	  To Give Life a Shape 
 by icepixie  

 Author's Notes: A million thanks to rowdycamels, without whom this would
be but a pale shadow of itself.

 Story Notes: This takes place in a timewarped universe in which a day
several weeks after "Red, White or Blue" coincides with one sometime
around episode five of the first season of S&A (Darren is gone, but Claire
is still around). The title is part of a quotation from _The Rehearsal_,
by Jean Anouilh: "The object of art is to give life a shape."

 

 At 9:45, Anna knocked on his open door, poking her head in. "I just
wanted to remind you that the corporate workshop starts in fifteen
minutes," she said, sounding, as always, slightly apologetic.

 "Shit." Geoffrey squeezed his eyes shut and thunked his forehead against
the desk. "Do I have to?" he asked, his voice muffled by the wood.

 "Well, it is the last one of the season," Anna said brightly, with just
the slightest touch of brittleness. She really, really hated it when he
did something mentally unstable, such as not showing up for one of these
workshops.

 "Thank God." He raised his head. Anna still looked worried. "All right.
I'll be there in a few minutes."

 "Oh, thank God," she blurted, and he could tell from her expression that
she hadn't meant to say that out loud. He waved his hand magnanimously.
Don't worry; unlike most of the people around here, I already know I'm
crazy.

 "Remember this one has a theme: teamwork," Anna said.

 Right. The themed workshops. Last week had been positive thinking, and
hadn't that been fun. He'd gotten a particular charge out of using some of
Lady Macbeth's speeches for that one.

 "I'm on it," he assured Anna, lying through his teeth. Hell, he hadn't
even known what the theme was until she mentioned it.

 "I'm going to pretend I believe that," she said. "See you at lunch."

 "Bye, Anna." He gave her a two-fingered wave, and she returned to her
desk, her sensibly low heels clicking on the hardwood floor.

 * * *

 To kill time at the start of the workshop, he had everyone go around and
introduce themselves. Instead of twenty people from one company, today's
group was made up of several pairs, threesomes, and quartets from various
places. In addition to the usual project managers and sales
representatives and marketing drones, there were a few engineers, a flock
of nurses, and two Mounties.

 He gave those last two, an Inspector Meg Thatcher and Constable Benton
Fraserthe sight of whom was like looking at a fucking mirror into ten
years ago, except his hair had never looked that neat, and he'd certainly
never worn a brown RCMP uniforma genuinely surprised look. "What the hell
are you doing here?" he asked. "Shouldn't your teamwork exercises involve
shooting things? Riding horses, maybe?"

 The woman, Thatcher (he had a feeling she went by her last name),
grimaced. "Another of my junior officers at the consulate decided that
this would be an appropriate use of discretionary funds in order to meet
professional development quotas. I've ensured that he's never going to be
allowed access to consulate funds again."

 "But we're very interested to learn how the works of William Shakespeare
can be studied to improve our teamwork and interpersonal communication
skills," the other one, Fraser, piped up. Geoffrey looked at his desk. He
had a pad of lined notebook paper and two freshly-sharpened pencils laid
ruler-straight on the surface.

 He'd been working on not sounding like a crazy person when he laughed.
From the worried looks on most of the participants' faces, he had not
succeeded this time. "All right, let's cut to the chase. This whole idea
of analyzing, say, the teamwork of Titus Andronicus' Chiron and Demetrius,
who I might remind you raped a woman and then cut off her hands and tongue
so she couldn't give them awayyou know it's bullshit, right?"

 Several cautious nods. Thatcher, he noticed, looked more bored than
concerned about the fact that he was telling them the whole workshop was
pointless, while Fraser quickly raised his hand. "But Mr. Tennant," he
said when Geoffrey, stupidly, nodded at him, "don't you think that, for
example, the scene in Much Ado About Nothing where Claudio, Leonato, and
Don Pedro trick Benedick into believing Beatrice loves him, while
admittedly not the most morally sound way of going about things, shows a
remarkable facility for working together to make and carry out a plan of
action?"

 Geoffrey stared at him for a long moment. The man had probably spent the
past week reading every word of the Riverside Complete Works. While taking
notes. "Are you for real?" he asked.

 Fraser's brow knit in confusion. "I'm not sure I understand the question.
If you're asking whether I exist in any kind of objective sense, then I"

 "Never mind," he said, just as Thatcher snapped, "Constable!"

 Fraser looked back and forth between them. "Understood," he finally said.

 Now somewhat rattled, Geoffrey looked out at the blank faces of the rest
of the group. An idea came to him. "Instead of looking at how characters
in the plays demonstrate teamwork, let's try a little hands-on learning."
At the back of the room was a bookshelf containing multiple copies of
individual plays, and he headed for it, the workshop attendees' heads
turning to follow him. "If you could all arrange yourselves so I can tell
who's together...thank you," he said as a few chairs scooted around.

 Quickly running through scenes and characters in his head, he began
picking books off the shelf. "I'm going to give each group a scene to
perform. You get to work as teams to figure out how to block ithow to
place yourselves and move around during the sceneand what kind of reading
to give each line. After you've had some time to prepare, we'll all come
back together for a performance." He was quite pleased with this plan, off
the cuff as it was, because it gave him time to work on the Hamlet. And
considering that he had a blithering idiot of an Ophelia, a Gertrude who
had completely checked out of rehearsals, and a Hamlet who had yet to
speak one line of the actual text, not to mention no set, costumes, or
even a good, solid concept of what he wanted the whole thing to look like,
he needed all the time he could get.

 He handed out copies of various plays to everyone, assigning reasonably
well-known scenes with the appropriate number of speaking parts to each of
the groups. He got to the Mounties last, and it was with a certain amount
of perverse glee that he handed them copies of Romeo and Juliet. Fraser
was so painfully earnest, and Thatcher so obviously bored with the whole
thing, that he wanted to ruffle their feathers a little. "Act two, scene
two," he told them. "You might want to use one of your chairs for a prop."

 Both of them thought about that for a second and then, as one, their eyes
widened with realization. "Mr. Tennant" they both started.

 "I'll be up at the front if you need me," he called to the whole room,
steamrolling over the Mounties' objections, and then made an about-face
back to the front of the room. Taking a seat by the wall, he
ostentatiously buried his head in his copy of Hamlet.

 Twenty minutes passed peacefully. Then guilt snuck up on him. The
participants had spent several minutes reading through their scripts in
silence, and he'd almost managed to lose himself in his own thinking.
However, they'd now started reading them out loud. He could hear them. And
what they were doing to the text actually physically hurt, a little
stabbing pain somewhere near his heart.

 Shit.

 With a sigh, he put his book down and walked over to the most pathetic of
the groups, a collection of sales reps attempting the witches in Macbeth.
At the moment, they sounded like witches who'd been drinking a little too
much of their homebrew grog. "I like the idea of being drunk on your own
power," he said, "but maybe less 'drunk' and more 'power.'"

 By the time he worked his way around to the Mounties, forty-five minutes
had elapsed. Thatcher had, he saw, not deigned to get up on her chair;
instead, the two stood facing each other, a broad gulf between them. Both
broke off from their reading and gave him baleful looks when he
approached. Fraser's in particular resembled that of a dog who had been
forced into doll clothes and was now asking God what he had done to
deserve such a fate. He motioned for them to continue.

 With a supremely pained expression, Thatcher glued her gaze to the book
in front of her. "How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?" she
asked, completely deadpan. "The orchard walls are high and hard to climb,
and the place death, considering who thou art"she didn't give the
impression that she thought this was much of a problem"if any of my
kinsmen find thee here."

 Fraser wiped his palm on his pants leg and cleared his throat. "With" His
eyes wide, he took a breath and started again. "With, ah, with love's
light wings did I o'er-perch these walls; for stony limits cannot hold
love out." He seemed to shrink down into himself. "And what love can do
that dares love attempt"

 He couldn't stand to hear the massacre go on for one more word. "Okay,
let's pause for a minute," he said, palms up in a desperate gesture.
"You've got to think of this as more than just reciting words on a page.
Otherwise...it's meaningless. You might as well be reading it silently to
yourselves."

 They had identical blank looks on their faces. For some reason, he got
the impression that they were blank less from misunderstanding than from a
great deal of effort. He put that thought aside and pushed on.

 "Let's look at the context here. You, Romeo and Juliet, are two teenagers
who are desperately in love. You burn with it; it consumes you. You saw
each other for the first time at a party a few hours ago, and you shared
this one kiss that was the single most transcendent, mind-blowing moment
of your lives. Your families hate each other, but the fact that you're
forbidden from any kind of contact just makes it even more exciting.

 "So right now, your hearts are racing with all of this fear and
adrenaline and love and, let's face it, lust, and the only thing keeping
you from going over to Juliet's bed right now is the fact that if anyone
finds Romeo within these walls they're going to run a sword through him."

 At that point, he broke off, noticing their expressions. He'd thought
they would show some understanding, maybe a little embarrassment at his
frankness, but "abject horror" had not really entered his expectations.
They glanced at each other while trying not to let their eyes meet, and it
only seemed to mortify them further.

 "Something wrong?" he asked after a long moment.

 Fraser hooked a finger into his collar and yanked it away from his
throat. "Ah, not exactly" he started, just as Thatcher, her cheeks
pinkening, said, "Look, Mr. Tennant, I appreciate what you're trying to
do. But we're Mounties. We're not going to be putting on a play any time
soon."

 He suddenly heard Oliver's voice over his right shoulder. "Oh, Geoffrey,
are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

 "Oh, yeah," he drawled. Before the confused looks on the Mounties' faces
could turn to questions about his sanity, he said, "Well, why don't you
just try standing a little closer to each other." He almost put a hand on
Thatcher's back to nudge her toward Fraser, but at her frankly murderous
glare, he simply made a shooing motion. With extreme reluctance, they each
took a few steps forward until, instead of a good three feet, there were
only about six inches between them. Geoffrey managed, barely, to avoid
chortling at their obvious discomfort at being so far into one another's
personal space.

 "And okay, I know you've got to read out of the books, but you've still
got one free hand, so try...touching each other. Caress her face, or run
your hand down his arm." This was so punching his ticket to hell.

 The Mounties looked as if he were asking them to handle poisonous snakes,
or possibly live grenades, rather than each other. Fraser gulped audibly.
"With all due respect, I really don't think that"

 "Go on, go on. 'With love's light wings...'" Geoffrey put a hand over his
mouth to hide the gleeful grin forming on it.

 "I think you've terrified them," Oliver said, sounding proud.

 He nodded, not trusting himself to say anything without bursting into
laughter.

 A long, expectant moment passed. Finally, Fraser began speaking the
lines, looking agonized. "With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these
walls," he said, still as stilted as before. Then he paused, apparently
rallying something within himself. He looked at Thatcher and focused,
really focused, for the first time since they'd started this exercise.
"For stony limits cannot hold love out," he continued, and Geoffrey
actually saw a smile begin to form on his face.

 He shocked all of them next by reaching across the tiny space that
divided him from Thatcher and cupping her cheek, not quite touching her,
but his fingers filling the air mere millimeters from her skin. "And what
love can do that dares love attempt; therefore thy kinsmen are no let to
me."

 Thatcher too had transformed somewhere in those four lines. Earlier, she
had worn the most disinterestedly impersonal expression Geoffrey had seen
this side of a mannequin; now, her eyes fixed on Fraser's face, she seemed
to hang on his every word. Both, he noticed, had stopped looking at their
books entirely. "If they do see thee, they will murder thee," she
whispered, and he would swear she was actually breathless.

 Now Fraser really did touch her, trailing his fingertips down her cheek
until he reached her chin, lifting it gently. "Alack, there lies more
peril in thine eye than twenty of their swords: look thou but sweet, and I
am proof against their enmity."

 At Thatcher's answering smile, Geoffrey was suddenly, painfully reminded
of the first time he had done this scene with Ellen, some ten years ago
now. They began rehearsals a few months after he'd moved in to her house,
and when he said those lines, she had looked exactly...like...that...

 Oliver, who at the moment was the last person on Earth he wanted to speak
to, tapped his shoulder. "They're good," he said in wonderment. "For
amateurs, they're very good. My God, Geoffrey, the things we could do with
them if we had them for a season"

 "Go away, Oliver," he snapped, not caring now if the Mounties heard.
Thankfully, they were so completely engrossed in the scene that they
missed it entirely.

 But they didn't miss Anna coming into the room a few minutes later and
cheerfully announcing that lunch had arrived. He loved Annashe was quite
probably the sanest and most competent person employed by the festivalbut
they really needed to have a talk about not interrupting his work.

 Thatcher and Fraser jumped away from each other as if they'd been caught
half-naked on a couch by someone's parents. Thatcher practically threw her
copy of the play onto her chair in her haste to get to the caterer's
sandwiches and, more importantly, away from her constable. Dammit,
Geoffrey thought. Just when they'd gotten the hang of it.

 "All right, everyone, take an hour," he called to the rest of the
participants.

 "Mr. Tennant," Fraser said. "May I speak to you for a moment?"

 Geoffrey glanced around in what he hoped was a surreptitious manner,
making sure Oliver had in fact left when he'd told him to. "Certainly."

 Fraser closed his book and carefully placed it on his chair. "Don't you
think there are, well, more appropriate scenes in the Shakespearean canon
from which to draw lessons on teamwork and interpersonal communication?"

 He couldn't help the smirk that appeared on his face. "I thought you were
communicating pretty impressively for a while there."

 He had never actually seen anyone turn as red as a fire engine until now.
"I suppose it wasthat iseven so, don't you think there are other scenes we
could perform? Why this one?"

 Geoffrey took his time before answering, leaning casually against the
wall and giving the appearance of thinking it over. "Well," he said,
"about two thirds of the people here would tell you that it's because I
enjoy fucking with people." He glanced at Fraser to see how that had gone
over. God, even the tips of the man's ears were red. "And to a certain
extent, they'd be right. However, the more important reason..." He thought
of Ellen again, of the way she'd looked at him in the wings right before
curtain call on opening night. She'd been Juliet for the past two and a
half hours; at that moment, she became Ellen again, and yet she still had
that look on her face, the same lovestruck look she'd had as Juliet, only
it was for him.

 They'd almost missed their bows.

 "The more important reason is that everything that makes an actor really
great comes from his own life. Whatever he's feelinghis happiness, his
anger, his griefit all shows up on the stage, because how else can we
conjure up this whole other person from what are, really, just words on a
page? And so when you get up there, and you say those words, and you
really mean themit's magical." Ellen as Beatrice, as Rosalind,
asyesOphelia floated before his mind's eye. With effort, he dissolved her,
watching her fade from his mind like fog, and shrugged at Fraser. "So I
figured you could put the rather obvious attraction between the two of you
to work."

 Fraser's eyes grew wide, and he yanked at his collar again. "Such
an...attraction...between the Inspector and myself would be highly
inappropriate." Geoffrey raised an eyebrow. Fraser rubbed a thumb along
his own. "As for the scene, it's just thatwell, that is, there are
rulesnot exactly rules against fraternization, but it is frowned upon
between a commanding officer and her subordinate, and so you see, the
scene, especially as you would like us to perform it, is rather unsuitable
for two RCMP members in our respective positions, and"

 This time Geoffrey really did laugh. "Do you have any idea how many times
actors are told in school, and by directors, and even sometimes by
management if they feel they have to poke their heads in, that they
shouldn't get involved with other members of the cast? Everyone tells you
it's a bad idea, and, I grant you, a lot of the time it is." He crossed
his arms, settling even further against the wall. "Do you want to guess
how many actors have followed that particular unwritten rule?"

 Fraser almostalmostsmiled. "Very few?"

 "Got it in one." His stomach growled just then, reminding him that he
hadn't eaten since...well, he supposed there had been coffee this morning.
"You know, lunch sounds like an excellent idea."

 "I agree." Fraser started to follow him toward the table filled with
boxed lunches, but then stopped, stricken. "But about the scene"

 Geoffrey picked up his pace. "See you in an hour, Constable!" he called
over his shoulder, swinging by the table and snagging a box, then quickly
ducking out of the room, heading for the Swan.

 * * *

 After a lunch spent arguing with Oliver about duel choreography for
Hamlet and Laertes, he had the workshop attendees perform their scenes.
His talk with them had improved the witches into something that at least
approached "school play" instead of "drunken revel," and the other groups
all discharged themselves with reasonable effectiveness, all things
considered.

 He saved the Mounties for last. When he called them up to the front, they
looked like they were headed for their executions. His spirits fell; he
really hoped that they hadn't overthought what they were doing and lost
all of their energy from earlier.

 Fraser had the first line. Instead of saying it, he looked at Geoffrey,
fairly begging him to not make them do this. Damn.

 "Fraser," he heard Thatcher say in a low voice. The constable looked at
her, and some kind of silent communication occurred between them. She
seemed to be granting him some kind of permission. Finally, Fraser said,
"He jests at scars that never felt a wound."

 Geoffrey decided not to take the tone of voice personally.

 Things were pretty rocky for a few lines, but then they seemed to settle
into it, moving closer and closer to each other until they finally
touched, at once electrifying the air in the room. They appeared, at
times, to be inches away from actually falling into one another's arms.
When Thatcher, her face radiant as a sun, softly pronounced, "My bounty is
as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the
more I have, for both are infinite," Geoffrey actually saw one of the
engineers dash something from her eye.

 The room rang with applause when they finished. Looking somewhat bemused
by the return to reality, they took quick, embarrassed bows and hurried
back to their seats. The uncomfortable distance between them was back;
neither so much as glanced at the other while Geoffrey thanked everyone
for their work and then had them fill up the remaining hours of the
workshop with readings from the better-known plays. Feeling merciful, he
only made the Mounties read Lysander and Hermia once.

 When the workshop finally ended and he mentioned he was heading for the
bar, about half the group followed him, like a pack of garrulous
ducklings, to the theater watering hole. Unsurprisingly, Fraser and
Thatcher were not among them, and it was with some disappointment that he
realized he was unlikely to ever see them again.

 However, some time later, when the rest of the group had gone home and he
was about to leave himself, Thatcher entered the bar. Instead of getting
up, he swiftly ordered another beer.

 Ho nodded at her when she approached the bar and requested scotch.
"Excellent performance today," he said.

 She frowned at him, taking a seat but leaving an empty stool between
them. "That was unfair, you know." He raised an eyebrow. "We aren't like
you. We can't just do something like that and then turn it off without any
effect on our real lives."

 "And what makes you think actors can?" He shrugged at her annoyed
expression. "Well, you've got to blame the theatrical community's dismal
relationship success rate on something. It might as well be that."

 She hmphed and took a sip of her drink.

 "Besides, isn't that what we want artreally good art, anywayto do? Affect
our lives, influence our very souls?"

 She was silent, either thinking about what he'd said or plotting the most
efficient way to break his arm, he couldn't tell. But before he learned
the answer, the bell on the door jingled, and both looked up to see Fraser
enter the bar, some kind of husky dog following at his heels. Thatcher
stiffened as he approached, and Geoffrey's back twinged in sympathy.

 "Ma'am," Fraser said, "I thought you should know that Constable Turnbull
left you a message at the hotel's front desk. I took the liberty of
retrieving it from the clerk."

 Thatcher pinched the bridge of her nose. "What's he done now? Burnt the
consulate down?"

 "Oh, no, ma'am. Apparently there was an incident with the Norwegian
ambassador in whichwell, it's nothing that can't wait until we return to
Chicago."

 "I suppose that's something." She pulled a couple of coins from her purse
and deposited them on the bar. Apparently she'd had as much of Geoffrey's
philosophizing as she could take. "Mr. Tennant," she said, nodding at him.

 "A thousand times good night, my lady," he said, one last barb for the
road.

 She glared at him, and for a moment he thought she really was going to
break his arm. Then she picked up her still half-full glass and tossed the
rest of the drink down her throat. "Fraser," she called, causing the other
man, who had been on his way to the door, to make an about-face.

 She walked over to him, and Geoffrey could tell she was making an effort
to look calm and collected. He could, if he listened carefully, just hear
their conversation. It helped that half the bar had gone quiet, also
watching the two Mounties with as much interest as they might have viewed
one of the better festival productions.

 Geoffrey felt a presence beside him, a cold draft and the fleeting smell
of pine branches in the snow, despite the fact that it was June. He
glanced to his right, expecting Oliver, but there was no one there.

 "Fraser," Thatcher said again. "I...I was thinking about our, um, our
agreement. From after thethe train."

 And then Oliver did appear, this time on his left. "Oh, God, I can't
watch," he moaned, putting a hand over his eyes. "Geoffrey go do
something!"

 He shook his head. "I'm pretty sure they have to do this themselves."
Though an explanation of what the hell it had to do with a train would be
nice.

 Thatcher was still babbling. "It's just that with...well, with recent
circumstances being as they areI mean, with both of us finding ourselves
unable to erase certain...certain things from our memories, and, of
course, with Randall Bolt being in prison for the rest of his life, so
that the chance of those exact circumstances repeating themselves is,
although not entirely non-existent, certainly less likely than it might be
otherwisenot that it was ever likely, of courseI thought perhaps we
could...we could revisit the terms. Of our agreement." She bit her lip.
"If you want to, of course. I would never order you to...or, or ask you in
any official capacity...."

 Fraser cocked his head, and Geoffrey found himself holding his breath.
Oliver had dropped his hand from his eyes and was staring at the Mounties
as though he could cause them to make this leap through force of will
alone.

 "I..." Fraser glanced over Thatcher's shoulder at Geoffrey, a drowning
Ferdinand reaching a hand out of the sea, hoping for rescue. Geoffrey
silently urged him on.

 "I...would like that very much. Perhaps we could discuss it over dinner?"

 Her hopeful little smile could just be seen. "That would be...very nice."

 Half the bar let out sighs of relief.

 Sneaking shy glances at each other, the Mounties (and the dog) left the
bar. Geoffrey relaxed on his barstool, a satisfied smirk on his face.

 Beside him, Oliver sighed gustily. "I feel like I just sent my child off
to their first school dance."

 Geoffrey slowly turned his head and gave him a disbelieving look.
"Because you would know what that feels like."

 "I had very paternal feelings toward some of the apprentices over the
years," Oliver shot back, sounding hurt.

 "Please tell me you didn't feel that way about the ones you were
fucking."

 Oliver didn't respond, and Geoffrey shuddered. "I suggest you let that be
your cue," he said, and tossed a bill on the bar. "I'm definitely taking
it as mine." He stood up, hoping Oliver wouldn't follow him, and headed
for the door.

 * * *

 Just outside the bar, he ran into Ellen. "Hello, Geoffrey," she said,
sounding...pleasant. Impersonal. There had been a time when she would have
reacted otherwise.

 "Ellen. Where's your boyfriend?" he asked, emphasizing the "boy." Over
the past several weeks, the cracks about her teenaged boyfriend had become
rote, and he hardly had to put any thought into them at all.

 She rolled her eyes, either at him or the boy, he wasn't sure. Probably
him. "Motorcycle practice. He has a meet, or a match, or whatever, on
Saturday." She tilted her head toward the bar. "Were you going for a
drink?"

 "Just leaving, actually."

 "Oh." She looked the tiniest bit disappointed, and suddenly he regretted
the crack, regrettedperhaps for the first timethat their entire
relationship had devolved from the bright truth of what they'd said to
each other as Benedick and Beatrice, or Romeo and Juliet, or any number of
others, into small talk and scripted insults on a sidewalk. Directing
required its own kind of authenticity, but without words shared onstage to
give them shape, they didn't seem to know how to make their lives
intersect anymore.

 He'd wanted to marry her once, marry her and make a baby. He'd even told
her so, and granted, it had been while pickled in at least six kinds of
alcohol, but he'd meant every word. In vino veritas. Honesty is not found
only on the stage.

 He thought of the Mounties, who had been more willing to engage with
truth in the past ten minutes than he had in seven years.

 "However, I have not had dinner." He half-expected her to take the hint,
but of course, things were different now. "Would you care to join me?"

 "Geoffrey, I don't..." she started, and suddenly he needed her to say
yes, needed this one thing, this single dtente, to happen between them.

 "A completely non-threatening, impersonal sharing of food," he said,
hoping he didn't sound as desperate as he felt. "We can discuss the scene
in Gertrude's closet."

 That did it. "All right. But Sloan's coming over in an hour, so I can't
stay long."

 "Of course." He almost offered her his arm, then thought better of it.
"Do you still like the potstickers at Yong's?"

 The ghost of a smile flitted over her mouth. "Yes."

 "Good." A fraction of the weight in his heart fell away, and his own lips
twitched briefly. They started down the street, ready, perhaps, to perform
the long-neglected offices of truth.  
  

End To Give Life a Shape by icepixie 

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