Blair turned towards the writer and glared. "Hey, get with the program! You got us into this mess, it's up to you to get us out of it!"
The writer sighed. "Look, can't you just deal with it yourself? Work something out? You're a clever guy. You've done it in the past!"
"What, like you had nothing to do with that?" Blair said pointedly. "Get real. I'm just your plaything, man."
"I wish," muttered the writer.
"My point is," Blair went on, studiously ignoring that last remark, "that you need to dive into the depths of your admittedly terrifying brain and come up with the goods. It's driving me nuts, sitting around here for months with nothing to do while you whine endlessly about how you've lost the plot."
The writer gave Blair a dirty look. "Look, it's not as if I don't have other things to do, you know. I'm really busy."
Blair chuckled. "Yeah, busy surfing the internet, looking for lulz. You've got time. It's Saturday!"
The writer felt considerably browbeaten. "Okay," she said, defeated. "I suppose I could give it a try. I warn you, though, my brain is mush today."
Blair grinned, not unsympathetically. "There's chocolate in the kitchen," he pointed out, waggling his eyebrows meaningfully.
The writer perked up immediately. "Go get it for me, would you? Oh, and brew a fresh pot of coffee while you're there?"
Blair rolled his eyes. "Yeah, like I'm just gonna leap out of the screen and do your bidding. You need to do a serious reassessment of the division between fantasy and reality, my friend."
"Oh, whatever." The writer got up, and trundled towards the kitchen. "Bloody characters," she muttered resentfully. "All they do is sit there on the laptop all day long and order you around."
The writer's sons piped up in unison from the next room, their tone long-suffering. "No Mum, that's what you do!"