Title: Agent Klutz: Week 5
Fandom: Read or Die
Keywords: Joker/Wendy, Yomiko/Nancy, Silly Liek Whoa, Diary Format
Rating: PGish


Dear Diary,

It is currently three-thirty in the morning, and I am exhausted beyond what I thought possible while still retaining consciousness, but as Agent Rock is currently snoring like a jack-hammer – he’s even worse than Drake, which is no small amount of shock – I won’t be able to sleep anyway.

So, I might as well relate the rest of yesterday’s Fantastic Adventures.

Unfortunately, nothing that happened to us was either Fantastic, nor well described as An Adventure. They were more like yesterday’s Vaguely Stupid Happenings.

But, I suppose that, in the absence of Fantastic Adventures, Vaguely Stupid Happenings will do nicely.

Just until some Fantastic Adventures come along, you know.

To pick up where we left off, Yomiko and Nancy and I had just left Agent Rock and poor Drake to keep an eye (and in Drake’s case, a fist) on Mr. Bone, while we disarmed the silly man’s rocket.

He definitely stole the idea, too. He could never have thought it up on his own. Which, being an awful, ridiculous idea, puts his intelligence in shining perspective.

I have a few grievances to nurse over the next part of the story.

You see, the rocket was tall enough that it involved a lot of scaffolding to get to. Now, it is completely reasonable for any normal person to fall off a few times. It definitely does not imply that they are unable to climb around precarious wooden beams strung loosely together.

I certainly didn’t slip more than about three times. Well, four times. Maybe five.

The point is, that isn’t a lot! So, I don’t see any reason why Nancy had to knock me unconscious with her gun (at least, I assume it was her gun; I suppose she might just have a very metallic-feeling fist that goes ‘clang’ when it hits me on the head; come to think of it, would a gun really do that? Has Nancy taken to carrying a ladle with her, too? Or a frying pan? Sounds a little silly, but that honestly fits the scheme of yesterday’s Vaguely Stupid Happenings quite nicely), and shove me into a little hidey-hole underneath the scaffolding.

And I certainly don’t believe what she told me right before hitting me about it being Mr. Joker’s orders! I think she just wanted to relieve some tension by abusing the weakest member of the group (or so Agent Rock says, but we all know the truth). Mr. Joker would never order for me to be knocked on the head and left out of all the fun! Although, I do dislike heights quite a lot. And those beams sounded awfully creaky, from what I recall. And the whole structure looked like it was swaying just a little bit…

Why did I want to be taken along again? I’m getting a little queasy just thinking about clinging tightly to swaying, creaking, snapping beams.

Well, I still managed to pick all the bloody and gory details out of Yomiko (although, it was more like overhearing her tell them to Drake), so I am quite satisfied.

Apparently, Yomiko and Nancy got about halfway up the scaffolding before being attacked by fifteen men with muffins on their heads.

Agent Rock said that they must have been exaggerating, and it was probably only three.

Agent Rock is simply bitter that he got beaten up by nine henchmen.

Am now expecting Agent Rock to sit bolt upright in bed, glare at me through the dim light of the desk lamp, and tell me snippily that it was twelve, thank-you-very-much, and they each had two muffins on their heads.

Oh, poor, poor Agent Pansy! I once had thirteen boys twice my size land on me during a rugby match in the park after school with my brothers and some of their friends, and I didn’t even feel woozy when I got up! Am still not entirely sure how thirteen boys ended up on top of me; have concluded that some spectators got involved.

Am also not entirely certain, to this very day, why people snicker when I tell them this.

Will make a mental note to ask Mr. Joker, and hope that he does not simply almost-smirk (since he never smirks, after all) and tell me that he’s thinking of taking up rugby. That’s what he did last time, you know. Isn’t he strange?

Oh, dear. This is the problem with journaling while very, very tired. I’ve gotten a bit off-track again.

The battle with the fifteen muffin-wearing men apparently went well, once Yomiko recalled that the muffin wrappers are, indeed, made from paper, albeit slightly waxy paper, and had a jolly time using this to her best advantage.

I must admit, I did think it was a little curious when fifteen muffins came raining down from the scaffolding just as I woke up from the Nancy’s-gun-induced unconsciousness, and landed right in front of my little hidey-hole.

No, I didn’t eat them! Honestly, who knows where they’ve been?

Well, I suppose I know where they’ve been: sitting on Mr. Bone’s henchmen’s heads. Can you imagine how much head-sweat they’ve probably soaked up? What a waste of a good muffin!

Nancy said that the most irritating thing about the trip up wasn’t being repeatedly attacked by men in muffins or men in chef outfits, but was instead Mr. Joker saying every five minutes, “The Paper, cover The Rock”, and then going off into a round of chuckles, despite being reminded icily each time that Agent Rock wasn’t actually there.

I wonder if Mr. Joker has been forgetting to sleep again. Honestly, Mr. Gentleman was right; the poor man is a wreck when I’m not there to remind him to do simple things like that!

Now, the next part of the story is a little confusing. Nancy and Yomiko’s account of the events gets a little hazy, and of course, since they left me behind like a pair of big meanies, I have no idea what happened.

Still, to their credit, they did try to tell me their story on the way back to the hotel. Or left me to overhear it while they told it to Drake. Well, while Yomiko did. Nancy just said that she didn’t want to relive it, and pretended to be asleep.

Yomiko said that they had just reached the top of the rocket and began looking for the kitchen in which the Pastry of Death was being constructed (surprisingly, by a few of Bone’s henchmen – I wouldn’t have thought he would leave something that important to his helpers; certainly I wouldn’t, if I were an evil villain), when the scaffolding began to wobble.

Nevertheless, our brave heroines pressed on, although Yomiko didn’t actually put it that way in her story, and I’m just adding more poetic touches.

After all, the scaffolding had been wobbling the entire way up. There was little point in going to pieces about it now.

Until, of course, it began to. Go to pieces, that is.

Then Yomiko made a rope out of her reserve paper (thankfully, she didn’t have to touch her emergency back-up book) and swung herself and Nancy to the safety of the platform outside the entrance of the rocket.

Unfortunately, when the scaffolding began to tip sideways, it somehow picked up enough momentum to dislodge the rocket.

Awfully flimsy rocket Mr. Bone has, if you ask me.

Am trying not to think about the possible double meanings behind this statement, as I rather like being relatively unscarred mentally and emotionally.

Still, the rocket tipped over, coincidentally crashing through the roof of the Dome of Eternal Pastry.

Yomiko tells me that as soon as it started happening, she and Nancy rushed back to the Dome (by swinging in through the hole that the rocket made) to make sure that Drake was okay.

And Agent Rock, she added quickly when that same Agent shot her an outraged, hurt look.

Honestly, he was a terror to all three of us girls the entire ride back (he left Drake alone, which proves that he isn’t quite as stupid as I had thought). And really, I think he could have been a little nicer to us. We’d all had an absolutely hellish time of it. Nancy and Yomiko had to fight half of Mr. Bone’s staff, then had to jump off of a falling-apart scaffold, and then had to jump off of a tipping-over rocket! And then, to top it off, Drake told me that they landed right in a very large layer cake (a real one, I think, and not Mr. Bone’s car) when they dropped through the rocket-induced hole in the roof of the Dome!

I wonder why Yomiko didn’t tell me that part.

Or why Nancy stopped being asleep long enough to glare at Drake when he did.

And as for me, first I got knocked out by a gun-or-ladle-wielding Nancy, then I had to look at fifteen muffins full of head-sweat, then I had another mouse almost run up my skirt, and then I almost had a lot of scaffolding fall down on top of me!

Oh, the mouse?

Well, just as I was starting to consider sneaking out of my hidey-hole under the scaffolding long enough to kick the muffins aside so I wouldn’t have to see them anymore, I heard a chillingly familiar little squeak.

I looked down, and lo and behold, there was my little friend the mouse from the dungeon-pantry.

And I honestly don’t think it got the hint about only Mr. Joker being allowed there, because it made for the frilly, lacy, poufy land of Under Wendy’s Skirt once again.

Since Drake wasn’t there to calmly explain things to the mouse this time, I had to make do with my own powers of persuasion.

And the mouse seemed fairly persuaded to go somewhere else once I started hopping about and screaming. Although, it could have been less because of me and more because, after the fourth time I crashed into one of the little wooden beams supporting the structure, it began to creak and sway ominously, and then started to fall apart.

Oh, dear. Something has just begun to make sense.

Em…I think I’ll refrain from telling Yomiko and Nancy that I might have played some small part in knocking over the scaffolding.

So, after the mouse and I scampered off to safety and then I kicked it across the room, I started back towards the Dome of Eternal pastry, but got distracted when I saw the rocket starting to tip over, directly towards said Dome.

It was awfully interesting to watch, after all. Disaster that wasn’t – completely – caused by me!

When I got to the Dome to see what on earth was happening in there, and if anyone had been gruesomely killed by a rocket landing on them (and I wasn’t entirely hoping that Agent Rock might have been!), Drake was helping Yomiko out of a layer cake, Nancy was trying to scrub icing spots off of her clothes, and Agent Rock was looking for some antacids and a glass of water to counteract all the rich desserts he’d eaten.

Oh, and a henchman was stumbling out of the rocket with a freshly-made pastry grasped in his hands.

A freshly-made, ominously glowing pastry.

At Mr. Bone’s dismayed exclamation from where he was handcuffed to one of the massive industrial-looking refrigerators, Drake dropped Yomiko back into the cake and turned to watch the drama unfold.

Bone explained to us in a frightened, wavery voice that now the pastry would destroy the planet after all, and really, he’d been sending it to the moon to avoid that, and he really wished that rampaging heroes like us would learn to mind our own business.

Drake pointed out snippily that trying to destroy either Earth or the moon seemed a little stupid to him, and it certainly wasn’t our fault that these rampaging villains were completely unable to get a life.

Agent Rock complained that his tummy hurt.

I reminded him that these things tended to happen when one made a pig of oneself on desserts that were not theirs, that they had not been invited to sample.

Yomiko interrupted politely and asked someone to help her out of the cake.

Drake and I went to help her while Nancy asked Mr. Bone if he had any idea how to disarm his fiendish creation.

Honestly, I wish you could see the withering ‘you-are-so-stupid’ glare he gave her as he said, “It’s a pastry, lady; not a bomb.”

And I wish you could see the blistering, ‘you-are-SO-dead’ glare that she gave him.

At this point, the pastry began to glow brighter within the hands of the unfortunate henchman who was carrying it, and to make an odd sort of growly noise.

And then Mr. Bone gave a howl of rage and pain, and with a strength born of desperation (or something), he wrenched at his handcuffs (unfortunately only succeeding in taking the door off of the refrigerator and dragging it along with him), bolted at the terrified boy bearing the pastry (still with the refrigerator door bouncing merrily along after him), snatched up the glowing dessert, and gobbled it down in about two bites.

And thus, it was a happy ending for everybody!

Aside from Mr. Bone, who promptly blew up.

And the boy holding the dessert, who was first crushed to death by a refrigerator door, and then his remains blown up.

And Agent Rock, who still had a tummy ache and couldn’t find any medicine.

And Yomiko, who still couldn’t get out of the cake.

And Drake, who rather resented being pulled in after her.

And Mr. Joker, who was a little miffed that no one was responding to his repeated attempts to get our attention through Yomiko and Nancy’s transmitters.

And me, who was still stuck in that silly maid outfit, with a right pervert of a mouse following me around.

Well, at least Nancy was happy, if one doesn’t count the fact that she had to watch the rest of us making fools of ourselves. And the little pieces of Mr. Bone she had to pick off of her shoulder.

Yes, that was a little icky, to be honest, but better him than the universe, I suppose. Although, I’m still not sure how a pastry that was supposed to suck the universe into a black hole caused the man who ate it to explode.

Have concluded that the minion he ordered to make it simply used too much baking powder.

You really have to watch that when you’re baking. That’s what my grandmum always says.

Once Nancy and Agent Rock and I had managed to haul Yomiko and Drake out of that layer cake, we made our way hastily out of Mr. Bone’s evil villain hideout.

As it turns out, he hid it in an old costume shop.

Honestly, the place looked deceptively small from outside.

Well, at any rate, that was Our Fantastic Adventure. Oh, hold on; we went through this already. Our Vaguely Stupid Happenings.

And now we are well and truly through with budding chefs and their attempts to destroy the universe by pastry, and tomorrow we shall be heading blessedly back home.

I don’t think I’ve ever had such a longing to do paperwork, fetch tea, and reorganize Mr. Joker’s bookshelves again.

Well, that isn’t entirely true; I generally enjoy fetching tea.

Am beginning to wonder if there is something wrong with me.

Aside from an incredible level of exhaustion, that is.

And so, diary dear, I shall leave you here and attempt to go back to sleep, despite Agent Rock and the cement-mixer-like noises drifting from him.

Your faithful servant,




Dear Diary,

It is now five in the morning, and I have just put a clothespin over Agent Rock’s nose in the hopes that it will make him stop snoring.

I do hope desperately that it works.

If it does not, I may hurt him.

And I suppose it is usually frowned upon when one murders one’s temporary roommates.

Do you know what else is—


Dear Diary,

It is now six in the morning, and I have just woken up at the desk in our hotel room, with the faint imprint of my previous entry across my cheek.

Am planning to go scrub the ink off.

Am hoping it comes off.


Dear Diary,

It didn’t come off.

Groan. I think Drake’s bad luck is catching.

Will make a mental image to Frown At him tomorrow.

Your faithful servant,




Dear Diary,

Home! Home at last! I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to see my humble little apartment, and my ugly brownish carpets, and my bookshelf, and my forty-three books, and my stereo, and all my CDs, and my rather awful but exceedingly comfy big blue plushy hand-me-down sofa and chairs, and my own soft, comfy bed in my own bedroom free of loudly snoring men to accidentally cuddle while having naughty dreams about...someone.

What was I talking about again?

Oh, yes; home, and how glad I am to be there.

I am currently lying upside-down on the sofa and scribbling away, which may explain why said scribbling is so frightfully messy.

I didn’t write back yesterday, because no opportunity afforded itself. I didn’t think it safe to test my luck by taking my diary out in front of Drake, after Frowning At him.

Or after giving him a big hug because I felt bad for being so mean.

He didn’t really get angry, though, he just grumbled a lot and said it wasn’t his lucky day.

I wonder if he has that phrase copyrighted.

If he doesn’t, he might as well.

Nothing very exciting happened on the ride home. Although, it was certainly a happy moment when Benny announced that we were stopping to drop off Agent Rock.

Unfortunately, our Loser Helicopter Pilot actually insisted upon actually landing, instead of just throwing Agent Rock out the side as Drake and Nancy – oh, fine; and I – suggested.

But at least our violent tendencies made Benny so scared of us (or at least of Drake and Nancy) that he didn’t sing any Elvis on the way back.

So, the trip back wasn’t quite as bad as it could have been.

Although, I did spend the entire thing hearing Mr. Joker’s voice in the back of my head telling me that I had half an hour to clean out my desk and be out of the building for good before he set Drake on me with a pillow.

After all, I did make a mess of a job I hadn’t been trained for and had been given no choice of refusing.


Oh, dear; I’ve been spending far too much time around Drake.

I can fairly hear his dulcet tones everywhere I go, telling me to put away the damn diary before he throws it out the window.

I might ask him for a recording when I see him next – something to help me go to sleep at night. I wonder if he would find that creepy.

At any rate, we got back to London much sooner than I and my slight terror of Mr. Joker would have liked, and went back to the Library to tie up loose ends. Or something like that. I wasn’t entirely clear on what we were supposed to be doing, and just sort of sat there quietly and drank my Very Bad Tea while Drake, Yomiko, and Nancy explained everything.

A little boring, to be honest.

Although, I promptly began to miss the boring when Mr. Joker told everyone else to go, and asked to speak to me for a minute.

He offered me more tea, and I was going to vehemently decline, because the stuff honestly tasted like paint thinner, but then he said that he didn’t think he’d done too badly making it.

Now, I don’t know if there is an established rule against this, but I certainly wasn’t going to risk offending my boss by telling him that his tea is frankly undrinkable, particularly when there was a high probability that he had kept me there to fire me.

So, I smilingly gulped down half the cup before “accidentally” spilling the rest down the front of my dress.

Of course it wasn’t actually an accident! Really, it wasn’t!

Alright, so it was.

Still, it was a good accident, since it meant I didn’t have to drink any more of that tea.

So, after starting to tell me what I was still doing there and getting distracted by this or that about five times until I was ready to scream, Mr. Joker finally told me that he was certain I had tried my best as a field agent, and I wasn’t quite the worst one they’d ever seen (which frightens me to no end), but all in all, he felt it best that I return to my real job. Because frankly, my strengths did not lie in the area of going out into the world and ‘kicking a little ass’, as it were, and he was afraid that someone would actually be badly hurt next time.

He also muttered something under his breath about how he owed Mr. Gentleman a lot of money, because he’d been right, the smug old bastard.

And I’m sure that, following this demotion back to the job I never wanted to stop doing in the first place, Mr. Joker was expecting me to shuffle sadly out of the room and go home to lick my wounds.

Because he certainly seemed surprised when I tackled him to the ground and hugged him, before begging him to let me fetch him a cup of tea – real tea.

I don’t think he was terribly pleased about being tackled to the ground – that hadn’t actually been part of the plan, and really, I should have recalled that I am a former rugby star, and have taken down much larger and stronger men than him – but he certainly smiled widely enough at the bit about a cup of tea, and said he supposed he would let me.

When I brought it back, I asked if I could go put his bookshelves back in order for him, but he said that would have to wait until Monday, because he for one was going straight home, and he didn’t want to leave me to lock up.

And so, I am now looking very forward to tomorrow, when I shall be joyously reorganizing all the bookshelves Mr. Joker has un-organized within the past three weeks!

My God, the man is hopeless.

I’m going to go reorganize my own little bookshelf, this time according to the second letter in the author’s last name!

Just to get ready for tomorrow, you know.

Your faithful servant,




April 9, 2001 – Monday

Dear Diary,

Life is wonderful!

Today began delightfully, waking up in my own bed, in my own apartment, and this time without any random men rampaging through it. I got up, had some coffee, got dressed, and had a very nice bus ride to work, even if I was dripping wet when I got there. Because it was raining, you know, but such a pretty rain!

I spent two hours of the morning reorganizing Mr. Joker’s office (because frankly, doing anything else was completely impossible, with him showing up at my desk every two minutes so I could find something for him), and then I spent another half-hour re-reorganizing it, because I did it wrong the first time.

It’s been a while, so it took me some time to remember the right way.

After that, I ran into Danielle in the halls, and she implored me in a whisper to go reorganize the filing system, since Joker had been putting things in the wrong places for the last three weeks, and no one could find anything.

It’s so nice to know that you’re needed!

Even though it would have been rather nice to get to some of the massive pile of real work that Mr. Joker has apparently been leaving on my desk for the past three weeks.

Groan. So much for time to sleep this week. It’ll all go into over-time, just to catch up with all of this work.

For heaven sakes, you’d think the man would have the common sense to—no, I said I was going to appreciate my life, instead of complaining now that it’s finally back to its old rhythms of normalcy.

You know, diary dear, one thing still makes me wonder: was Mr. Joker serious when he said that he would like me to model my silly new frilly pink maid dress? Because I was very tempted to bring it to work with me, but I don’t know if he meant it, or if he just said it to distract me from breaking something in Mr. Bone’s hideout.

And, of course, I couldn’t outright ask him!

Being so direct; that just isn’t done! Unthinkable, to just walk in and calmly ask him, “Mr. Joker, did you mean it when you said you wanted to see me prance around like a walking maid fetish?” And then he would answer yes, and I would be happy but a little nervous, or he would answer no, and I would be sad but a little relieved. But either way, I wouldn’t be wondering anymore!

Well, the problem with that, diary dear, is that wondering and agonizing is half the fun!

Um. Not a very good game, now that I think about it. And after all, Mr. Joker is very reasonable about these things. He’s said before that if I ever have a question, I should ask about it right away, instead of doing things wrong because I don’t want to bother him with silly inquiries.

Still, I’m sure Sylvie and Julie’s hair would both turn white, if they found out that I was even thinking about violating The Code.

And so, I won’t. I’ll just return to my account of my Very Wonderful Day.

After I reorganized the filing system again (which took a good, long while, as Mr. Joker really is hopeless when it comes to putting things back where they belong), he gave me one of my “little extra projects”, which I normally cringe at a little, as they usually involve using “dirty tricks”, which, in addition to involving a lot of meticulous work to cover my dirty little tracks, always gives me the uncomfortable feeling of being in an entirely different line of work that involves miniskirts and late nights on the streets in bad parts of town.

But this time it wasn’t so horrid, and I didn’t have to use any dirty tricks and feel as though I ought to be wearing fishnets. I only had to transfer a lot of Mr. Joker’s tiny, cramped, barely readable notes from dozens of Post-Its to computer, and then organize them into some vaguely coherent body of text.

Really, I’m beginning to worry about Mr. Gentleman’s health, what with all these mentions of “transferring his personality to another so that we never need be without him.” I thought he was feeling better than he had been earlier this year, after he accidentally rolled his wheelchair down a flight of stairs.

Of course, there was the small matter of his going temporarily mad and agreeing to let Joker make me a field agent, but I had put that small matter up to his twisted sense of humour.

Well, he’s the only person I know (besides Drake) who finds Saturday Night Live uproariously funny. Of course, it is mildly amusing from time to time, but a steady diet would be nothing short of annoying. Silly American trash. That’s what Mr. Joker calls it, you know. But he doesn’t tell Mr. Gentleman that. He doesn’t like to disagree with him on these things. Or anything else.

If only he could have recalled that a few weeks ago and sensibly agreed that me as a field agent was simply begging for disaster!

Oh, well. It’s all over, and I’m home now. And I hope that nothing out of the ordinary happens again for a long, long time. If it doesn’t, maybe I’ll actually get my desk back in order some time this month, instead of having to peek miserably out at people from behind two gigantic stacks of work!

Unless “something out of the ordinary” involves Mr. Joker having a spare key to my flat and sneaking in someday to do something fun and impetuous that involves our clothes being flung carelessly about.

Oh, dear; the ink is running again. I had managed to avoid that for a while.

And in addition, the telephone is ringing.

Perhaps I ought to go answer it.

Right; off I go, then.

Oh, my.

Giggle-giggle, blush-blush.

That was Mr. Joker on the phone just now. And, as it happens, a Mr. Joker who was very much in earnest when he said he wanted to see the maid outfit.

But not, he emphasized, at work. That would, it seems, be silly and unprofessional. And, it follows, someone else might see, and like it, and he really didn’t want to have to kill half his own staff. Elias, he said, had been treading a fine line lately.

Honestly, I do NOT want to know. Is there a normal man around that place?

Still, I am losing focus on the important part: Mr. Joker is going to stop by later, especially to see my new frilly pink maid outfit! I rather wish he hadn’t added the bit about his appointment elsewhere being cancelled, and his thus having nothing better to do this evening, but that isn’t terribly important.

It seems that Mr. Bone was good for something, after all, God rest his soul.

Oh, I’m so excited! I’m going to change, right now!

Of course, I’m not particularly thrilled about being back in that idiotic outfit, but I am very much looking forward to the possibility of some Fun developing.

Luckily, I thought to wash the silly thing last night in between bouts of being Very Tired.

I wonder if I ought to wear my frivolous, impractical undies with the silly dress.

Hmm. Could’ve done without the nervousness, honestly.

Alright; I'm going to change, right now.

Your faithful (and very nervous and excited) servant,




April 10, 2001 – Tuesday

Dear Diary,

I’m going to wake up any second now. Life is just too wonderful right now to be real, and the only possible explanation is that it is not real, and I am having a lovely dream, the sort that makes the ink run a lot.

It is currently so late that I have dated this entry as tomorrow, and I’m writing this in bed, by the light of my side-table lamp. Joker, who has requested that I leave off the “Mr.” in private henceforth as “it is a little creepy, you know”, is already asleep, and looking so nice and peaceful that it’s keeping me from acting on the urge to wake him up and try to coax him to…erm, “play” again.


I suppose I ought to explain what has happened to end this evening with my boss in my bed. It isn’t a terribly intuitive leap to assume it, but…well, I want to write it down, to look back on it on bad days!

He came by at about eight-thirty, and he seemed a little surprised that I had the silly dress on already, although I don’t think he minded.

At least, judging from the number of times he dropped his keys and waited for me to pick them up for him, while he went around behind me to give me space.

Seemed a little funny, and even through my slightly muddled thoughts at that point, I could tell that it was put on; usually, randomly dropping things is my department.

I thought it was an honest mistake the third time, though (as he had finally gotten the hang of being convincing), so when I straightened up, I turned right around and crashed into him. Hard enough, unfortunately or fortunately, to send us both to the floor, since he was a little off-balance because he hadn’t finished straightening up, and he grabbed onto me for support, when I was a little off-balance, too.

I don’t know what my neighbours must have thought. I suppose they’re used to the series of mysterious thumps drifting from “that silly Wendy girl’s” flat.

So, we stayed there for a minute. I think he maybe wanted to get up, but I was too busy snuggling to let him, and before long, he just let me snuggle, and sort of patted my back.

And then he tried to be subtle about his other hand moving toward the bottom of my skirt, which was absolutely adorable! I suppose he doesn’t know that it’s usually very obvious to a girl when a man has his hand up her dress.

Unless the man is doing it wrong.

Which he very definitely wasn’t.

I must have been looking at him oddly, because he gave me this very cute smile that I think was supposed to be seductive, and said he’d thought that, as long as we were down here, we might as well take advantage of it.

And now, dear diary, here we are.

Of course, some things happened in between then and now (quite my favourite part of the evening, to be honest), but this is not THAT sort of diary, and thus I shall refrain from going into full, delicious detail.

At some point, we did move from the floor of my living room, down the hall, to my bedroom, though; that seems innocuous enough a little detail. And I suppose I could describe the kissing – go on for pages about soft lips and warm, mingling breath and such – but I did not go through all those years of schooling to learn how to write romance novels!

Oh, he also thought it necessary to kindly explain to me…ahem…after, that he didn’t really have a “maid thing” – that asking me to wear the outfit was really all a ruse, because he thought it was becoming far more distracting to deal with trying to ignore our interest than to act on it.
Honestly, I had figured out all by myself that it was a ruse, and not a symptom of his maid fetish, which, as he explained, doesn't actually exist. If I hadn’t, I’d have likely slapped him several times by now upon being told to go fetch the feather duster and get back to work. Instead of cuddling a lot.

There’s a bit of a difference between slapping and cuddling, after all.

Again, unless a person is cuddling entirely the wrong way.

And really, I meant to ask him exactly where he got the impression that I had ever tried to ignore my interest. Of course, I did not exactly shout to the skies that I had broken every single rule in the book and fallen for my boss instead of that nice Steve boy on the janitorial staff as any sensible girl would’ve done, but I didn’t try to deny it, and I recall making it decently obvious to anyone paying attention.

Of course, this was partly because I thought he wasn’t paying attention.

Until he began letting little hints slip, too. I had honestly thought this was intentional, to see if I was. Paying attention, that is.

Was incredibly surprised to learn that it was not.

Intentional, that is.

I have the oddest feeling that I ought to be uncomfortable with this – I know, academically, that becoming involved with one’s boss is the kiss of death to all professionalism. But, honestly, I don’t see why, if you don’t behave like a complete fool. After all, I won’t be silly enough to behave any differently at work. He simply wouldn’t tolerate it.

After all, he said that one of the main reasons he finally did something was because it was becoming far too distracting to try to ignore it.

If I were just a little sillier, it might offend me that maintaining professionalism was his strongest motive, instead of my natural beauty and charm and overall irresistibility.

As it is, this all makes perfect sense to me.

Not only this, but I have just noticed him cuddling his pillow, and am now too busy melting into an adoring puddle to be offended by anything in the world.

And now, as I was apparently rather too loud a puddle, I have just been told sleepily to turn off the light and get some sleep.

As I do not want to risk a third man making throwing-out-a-window attempts on my diary, am going to comply.

Your faithful servant,




Dear Diary,

Well, the first day has been got through, and no one seems to have noticed anything different.

Am, of course, referring to the newly-begun romantic entanglement with my boss, which I have apparently begun because I am insane.

Yes, that was Julie’s professional opinion when she telephoned earlier this evening, and apparently I was in such a good mood that “SOMETHING had to be different!”

Honestly, I like to think that I sound in a decently good mood most of the time, but perhaps I am merely fooling myself.

At any rate, I tried fervently to deny it, but she is as good as I am at finding out things she shouldn’t know, and before long, and without any idea how, I had admitted to her that I did, indeed, have Joker over for a “sleepover” last night.

Complete with a pillow-fight, and everything.


So, it follows from this that I am insane, because any sane female would have dealt with their handsome, kind, and wonderful boss’s advances by scurrying around the room, shrieking loudly about sexual harassment.

I wonder if she has any idea that I was the one who as good as jumped him, rather than the other way around.

I wonder if I should have told her.

Would’ve shut her up in a hurry, I think.

Definitely should have told her; there isn’t much that can shut Julie up, and the novelty alone would have made it enjoyable

At any rate, aside from the fact that I am insane, and that Julie is going to have Sylvie telephone to knock some sense into me (over the phone – impressive, no?), today was a relatively good one.

As I’ve said, no one around the Library has guessed that anything has changed, although they could just be keeping quiet for fear that, if angered, I will continue to let Joker file things back himself, just to show them.

That would be quite a punishment, for everyone around there. Myself included, when I finally had to set aside my childish little fit and set the filing stations back to rights myself.

Am glad to report that, due to Joker’s having been able to keep his office relatively tidy since yesterday, I was able to get started on the massive pile of work waiting for me on my desk with a wickedly grotesque grin.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

Although, by seven this evening, I was sleepy enough that inanimate objects did seem to be randomly making faces at me.

Which eventually led to my running at top speed down the hallway to Joker’s office to collect some things I had left there.

Oh, alright, so it was a ruse! I really wanted to be around him, so that he could protect me if the inanimate objects did begin randomly attacking.

Save me, Mr. Joker! Save me from the wrath of the printer! Or I’ll save you from the wrath of the printer. Or something.

Still, he was busy, so I stayed long enough to collect my things, and my scattered wits, and then left him in peace.

Then I remembered that just because I wasn’t going to start behaving any differently around him now that we are periodically doing Fun Things together, didn’t mean I was going to act any differently in the other direction, and completely neglect his well-being in favour of professionalism.

Or something.

Either way, I marched right back into his office and threatened to throw something at him if he didn’t go home and get some proper sleep.

Harrumph. He didn’t have to laugh quite so heartily at that.

Still, at least he did leave, and even offered me a ride home, looking so altogether hopeful that I felt nearly bad about reminding him that I had brought my own car today. Professionalism, you know. Keep this relationship as hidden as we can keep it.

So, we compromised by going somewhere for dinner.

During which we talked a bit about last night, or at least alluded to it amid a lot of blushing in my case and a slightly embarrassed, but not ill-pleased smile in his, and a lot about what I’d learned in the process of being a field agent for those disastrous three weeks I desperately wish there was some way to strike from my memory.

I wonder why Joker got such a funny expression when I told him that, though…

All in all, the only things I was able to tell him I’d learned for certain is that there are a lot of madmen out there (which I had already known – you don’t spend each and every day around some of the people I work with without learning THAT), that I have no natural ability for show-shoeing (which could not possibly matter less to me), and that you apparently don’t have to understand a word your date is saying to have a pleasant evening (the nice French man, you know – and as for me, the only thing I know how to say in French is ‘yes’, which makes me a very agreeable, but not a terribly riveting date).

And I think I can figure out why this gave Joker a slightly strange expression. A different sort of strange. A strange that seemed to imply a hatred of the French, curiously enough.


And so, dear diary, I am now back at home, and with half of my mind am singing and dancing crazily about in sheer jubilation, while the other half of my mind smarts under the sting of Julie’s not-so-nice-to-say-to-your-friend words, not to mention the fact that, as Joker ended up driving me home after all, I am going to be taking the bus tomorrow, and likely arriving to find a parking violation ticket pinned to my windshield for leaving the vehicle there overnight.

Well, having sorted all of this out, I think I shall make my merry way to bed, as it is rather late, as Julie found it necessary to keep me on the phone for rather a long time to properly explain to me all of the reasons that I am stupid for not doing exactly as she would in this situation.

Grr. Stupid friends.

Your faithful servant,