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buffyfic-digest          Monday, May 11 1998          Volume 02 : Number 176



In this issue:

       BUFFYFIC: "Future Imperfect" -- Chapter Three -- (2/2)
       BUFFYFIC: "Future Imperfect" -- Chapter Three -- (1/2)
       BUFFYFIC: Full of Grace (1/4)
       BUFFYFIC: Full of Grace (1/3)

See the end of the digest for information on (un)subscribing to the buffyfic
or buffyfic-digest mailing lists and on how to retrieve back issues.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Date: Mon, 11 May 1998 06:30:53 EDT
From: KylenRevik <[e-mail]>
Subject: BUFFYFIC: "Future Imperfect" -- Chapter Three -- (2/2)

This is the second part of Chapter Three, which was two posts long. Please
send all comments, questions, and requests for missing pieces to
[e-mail]. Thank you.

~

Place: Sunnydale University.
Time: May 22, 2012. Midmorning.

     Too many ghosts. Too many demons-- and not the sort that
inhabited human bodies and sucked blood. There were too many
memories here for Xander to stand it much longer, but he had
promised Willow that he would let her take him around, show him the
computer labs at the school, and that he would sit in on one of her
classes and listen to her teach.
     So here he was, now, a thirty-one year old sitting in a class
of computer geeks in their late teens who were soaking up every
word Willow uttered as though drops of gold were spilling from her
lips.
     Xander could remember times he had felt like that. Other
women, other reasons, and yet somehow he felt there was some sort
of connection. These kids had love, passion, for what they were
doing-- and he could tell there was going to be plenty for them to
do with the knowledge they were going to earn.
     He sighed. He had never quite gotten back on track after
transferring to UCLA. Cast about from major to major, met Anna-
Marie in a music theory class while entertaining thoughts of
starting a rock 'n roll band. She was a floutist, but it was
something she did on the side. Other times, she wrote papers on why
the dead white males of literature were a waste of time, and why
there were so many things one could learn from the contemporary
writers that you couldn't absorb from Dickens or Shakespeare.
     Willow's lecture lasted three hours, and once it was over
Willow had to speak with some of her students, so she told Xander
if he'd wait for her in the hallway she would be there in a few
minutes. Once he had been in the hall for close to half an hour, he
realized that "a few minutes" wasn't meant to be taken literally--
so he started walking through the halls in a wide loop around
campus. Every time he turned a new corner, another memory assaulted
him.
     There was the place where Cordelia had tripped down the stairs
and sprained her ankle. There was where Willow had gotten asked to
join one of the campus sororities, leaving Cordelia green with
envy-- until it turned out that the girls had mixed up which of
them was which, and Willow had made a big deal out of the fact that
she didn't care and she didn't want to have to deal with the
cliques anyway. There was the place where he and Cordelia had
announced to Buffy, Will, and Giles that they were engaged, that
Xander had worked out what Cordelia had pronounced, "the sweetest
thing!", taking her out for dinner at La Place-- one of the newer
and more sophisticated places about town-- and had placed the ring
over one of the candles on her birthday cake.
     He turned another corner, and ran into a young woman-- a
student. "Excuse me," he said.
     "No prob," she replied, flashing him an unconcerned look--
     Xander's thoughts broke off abruptly when the face clicked.
"_Buffy_?" It was a shocked whisper.
     A hand fell on his shoulder. "Xander?" Willow asked.
     He brushed her hand off his shoulder and took off through the
doors the student-- _Buffy_?-- had gone through. But when he
arrived on the other side, no one was there.
     "Xander?" Willow asked again, breathless as she had run up
behind him. "Who were you talking to?"
     Xander shook his head, looking around frantically. "I--
Willow, I saw--" He broke off abruptly, realizing what he was about
to say. Then he swallowed. "No. Nothing." *God,* he thought, *Anna-
Marie is right, I'm losing my mind over this...ten _years_ and I
start hallucinating?*
     Willow looked at him for a long moment. "You said Buffy.
Called her name."
     "It was nothing."
     "Xander--"
     "Willow, I promise. Memories. Nothing more."
     Willow bit her lip, looked at him, and Xander could tell she
was worried. But what was he supposed to say? *Yes, Willow, I just
saw our dead best friend walking down the hallway, I ran in to her,
she's not dead, she's still young, and she's beautiful, and I...*
That wouldn't work at all.
     There were a few more seconds of silence, then Willow sighed.
"If you say so," she said quietly. "Be careful."
     His eyes still focused across the lawn which his hallucination
must have crossed, Xander nodded quietly and let Willow lead him
back to her car.

~

All comments to [e-mail], please.

------------------------------

Date: Mon, 11 May 1998 06:30:50 EDT
From: KylenRevik <[e-mail]>
Subject: BUFFYFIC: "Future Imperfect" -- Chapter Three -- (1/2)

This is chapter 3 of 13. All questions, comments, or requests for missing
parts, please e-mail me at [e-mail].

~

                     "Part Three: Fissures"

Place: Cordelia's Journal.
Time: May 21, 2012, Late Night.

     Xander and Willow came tonight. I wrote last night that I
never wanted to see him again, after what he said yesterday. I
don't know why I didn't tell Willow not to bring him after all,
even if she and I have been planning this for a while, because the
night was a disaster and now I only want to take it back. The
moment I brought up the books Giles left with me when he moved to
Ottawa to train a new Slayer candidate, Xander exploded.
     You know, you'd think I would be the angry one. I kept my word
to Buffy, I didn't tell anyone she was going to try to either
change Angel back or kill him. I thought she was kidding, for god's
sake. I never thought she was serious when she...
     But I've gone over that before, too many times. And I wanted
to write about tonight. It's been hours and hours since Xander and
Willow left. Since he stormed out and she followed him. I brought
out the books and explained to them that Giles had wanted me to
show them, but Xander never came back and I wanted to do it all at
once, because I didn't know what was in them, and then the next
thing I know Xander's yelling at me and asking if it was--
     Okay. I'm okay. I didn't keep it from them on purpose. Either
the books from Giles or that Buffy came to me the day before she
died and said if anything happened to her and there was a pile of
ash nearby, she wanted me to spread it over her grave. So she would
be with him forever. How was I supposed to know it was serious? I
mean, she had said so many times she was going to turn Angel back,
but she never actually tried it before that night, I don't think.
Or else she had tried, and failed, and she didn't say anything to
me. How was I supposed to know? I've asked myself that question
ever since the morning Xander wrote me that letter and left.
     I should be the one who's mad at him, you know. He's the one
who was too scared to stick around. He would have hated me anyway,
though. I can't believe how long it took me to realize he wasn't
coming back. I can't believe I let him hurt me like that. I mean,
look at me. I'm Cordelia, the one who doesn't hurt. Ever. Not
because some geek dumps her. I don't know why I accepted that
engagement ring in the first place. At least he's gone now.
     He always was such a self-centered jerk. Even back in high
school. And running off like that. And now, blaming me. I could
have just not told him. I thought he'd understand. I thought it
would make him hurt less. Which, admittedly, isn't something I
should have worried about.
     I gave him the books. I don't need them. Willow says he's only
going to be here a few more days. I hope he never comes back again.
                                *
Place: Rosenberg Residence.
Time: May 22, 2012. Early Morning.

     "Give me that," Willow said insistently as Xander stormed into
the dining room of her house, setting a small pile of books on the
table.
     "Why?" Xander asked. "She gave them to me."
     "Because you were being a jerk," Willow snapped. "Xander, how
could you say those things to her?"
     He flipped open one of the books, paging through it, shaking
his head. "Maybe because she deserved it," he said quietly.
     There was silence for a moment, and he began reading a passage
that had been marked off and dated, "11/28/98", then he murmured
the lines aloud. "Let us speak across the divide of time/without
concern for it's ebb and flow/and take us to the hearts of those we
love/bringing us closer--"
     He broke off as Willow snatched the book away. "Xander," she
said.
     "--to the ones our memories best know," he finished. "What."
     "What you said to Cordelia." Willow sighed. "She didn't mean
to hide these-- all those things from us," she said quietly. "And
it was unfair of you to say she did."
     "She didn't tell me about Buffy till yesterday."
     "Because you haven't been here."
     "But--"
     "Xander," Willow said quietly, calmly as always, "you can't do
this. To yourself or to Cordelia, she doesn't deserve it and
neither do you." She paused a moment. "We were just kids."
     Xander looked at her for a long moment, then sighed. "When did
we stop being kids?" he asked.
     She shook her head. "I don't know," she said.
     They looked at each other for a long few seconds before Willow
passed the books back. "You shouldn't hold it against Cordelia,"
she said quietly. "She was never quite as deep into things as we
were."
     Xander took the volumes, cradling them in his arms for a long
few seconds before shaking his head. "I'm sorry." He seemed to be
doing a lot of apologizing since he'd returned to Sunnydale.
     Willow shook her head. "It's okay," she said, though they both
knew it wasn't. Then she took a breath. "I'm going up to bed," she
said. "You going to come to class with me tomorrow?"
     Xander was ready to say no, then saw the hopeful look in her
eyes-- and nodded. "Sure," he said. "Wake me up?"
     She nodded. "Will do," she replied, then started up the steps.
     Xander stood in the hall for a few seconds, then turned and
walked into her guest room to get some sleep of his own.

------------------------------

Date: Mon, 11 May 1998 07:47:11 -0700
From: Elizabeth Ann Lewis <[e-mail]>
Subject: BUFFYFIC: Full of Grace (1/4)

Author's notes:

Sarah McLachlin and Angel won't let me alone.  I started writing this the
day after Passion aired.  I apologize to each and every one of you; don't
kill me, or there won't be any hope of a sequel.

The song Full of Grace is on Sarah's latest album Surfacing.  If you
haven't heard Sarah... well, let's just say she does a GOOD job of
enhancing Buffy-angst.  < g >

Thanks (always!) to Perri and Chris.  A year and a day ago, you two, I was
pinned down helplessly in a hotel room and forced me to watch Buffy.  My
life has not been the same since.  To Dianne, who was trapped in the same
hotel room.  To my Roomie, who *looked* and all of a sudden Cordelia was in
the story.  To my own person fic-demon, MaryBeth, who must have set up an
auto-bot to e-mail me every week to demand this story.

Disclaimers:  Not mine, wouldn't torture them like this if they were, don't
sue.  Joss is God, and if he doesn't fix what's broken he's going to be in
TROUBLE!!!!

Praise, flames, chocolate and cute angsty vampires to [e-mail]

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Full of Grace

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    He is aware of being restrained, chained down by flesh and iron to
earth.  His eyes sting from a blinding flash of light -- a flash that he
both remembers and doesn't remember.  Divided against himself, for a moment
there seems to be two separate consciousnesses in his body.
    Then with a force that nearly destroys him, the two merge into one.
A century or more passes before the pain -- physical, spiritual and psychic
- -- lessens enough to let him lift his head.  Five figures surround him, one
at each point of a pentagram scrawled on the ground.  He looks up -- into
her eyes.
    One moment, two passes.  And then he throws back his head and
screams his rage to the sky.  A demon's howl, coming from a human's soul.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**The winter here is cold
**And bitter
**Chills us to the bone.

    The apartment was cold, musty.  Disuse had left its marks in the
dust on the floor, spiders spinning ragged lace in corners.  He hadn't seen
the place since he had turned around and left Buffy shaking and crying in
the middle of the room.  The blood in the old refrigerator had spoiled,
making the enclosed, airless space smell like a butcher's shop, turning his
stomach.
    The memories turned it more.

**Haven't seen the sun for weeks
**Too long, too far from home

    Drawing littered the desk and walls, drawings of his past.
Somehow, after he met Buffy, he was able for the first time to resurrect
the images of his family, friends, human life.
    For the first time in two centuries, he could look into his
mother's eyes and remember her as the woman she had been, and not the
broken corpse he had left her.
    Now her eyes stared down at him from the wall, accusing, the
goddess Nemesis herself.

**I feel just like I'm sinking
**And I claw for solid ground.

    Angel scrubbed his face with his hands, clutching the thin thread
of his control.  Before, there had been nothing but rage.  The demon had
been furious that its merry devastation had been checked; the soul had been
anguished at being ripped from its rest and returned to hell on earth.
Within the vast confusion of the whys and wherefores, there had been no
room for anything but anger.
    The shame had come later.

**Pulled down by the undertow
**Never knew I could feel so alone
**Oh, darkness; I feel like letting go.

    He didn't have that blessed period of abeyance now.  He knew
exactly what he had done, to whom.  He knew how much it would torment and
destroy.  And he had done it so cheerfully, so full of demonic pleasure.
Every act, every moment, seen and imagined, had been a banquet for his
senses, the faintest drop in the ocean of his hatred for the girl who had
made him love again.
    The pain was a living thing, twisting in his belly, clawing its way
out of his throat in a tortured scream.  Blinded by pain and fury, he
ripped the drawings from the wall, reduced the desk itself to deadly shards
of splintered wood, shattered the glass case of Kwan Yin and the figure
within, venting his fury at God and fate and himself on silent, dumb
objects.  Things that were unable to see, unable to care.  Futilely beating
his fists against the wall, he wanted to shatter it, himself, the world, to
end the existence of anything and everything so that this moment itself
could end.
    He should have learned by now that random destruction didn't help
anyone.
    Slowly, his face pressed to the wall, he sank to the floor.  Lost
amidst the shards of glass and wood, the only sound were strangled, choked
sobs of defeat.  He no longer had the shell of nearly a century of solitude
to protect him from the pain.  It had been ripped away by the pity in the
Slayer's eyes when she asked him if he knew what it was like to have a
friend.  Somehow, he thought that he was unlikely to regain that protection
ever again.
    Scattered on the floor, his drawings faced him with a thousand
accusing eyes.  It was time to face the living ones.

**If all of the strength
**All of the courage
**Come and lift me from this place
**I know I can love you much better than this
**Full of grace.
**Full of grace, my love.

    The library was silent, dark except for a streak of light from one
corner.  He purposefully timed it so no one would be here but Giles.  He
couldn't face them all at the same time.  He needed to do this one by one.
    Moving forward, he could see a figure hunched over the desk, finger
tracing faded lines of text.  Behind him was a cot, bedclothes rumbled and
flung across its narrow, monkish width.  Giles had not spent a night at his
home since he had found his beloved lying dead there.  Angel didn't blame
him.
    Angel's hands curled into fists, fighting the urge to escape.  This
needed to be done.  He needed to do this.  Slowly, he moved forward until
movement out of the corner of his eye caught Giles' attention.  He turned
sharply, then stumbled back when he looked through the window of his office
and recognized the figure before him.  Automatically, Giles reached for the
long sword he kept with him at all times now.  Then his mind overruled his
fight instinct, recalling the spell, the ceremony, a soul returned.  The
hilt of the sword slid through his fingers and thumped gently back to his
desk.
     "Angel."  One word, uninflected and unemotional.  Last time they
had faced each other, alone, just the two of them, a baseball bat had been
blazing in Giles' hand and anguished rage had burned in his eyes.  Now
those eyes were flat grey and empty, expressionless through the clear glass
that separated them.
     "I wanted to thank you."
    Giles almost laughed, a little puff of air that had little of humor
in it.  "I hardly thought you would thank me for what I did."
     "You stopped me from...," Angel paused and gritted his teeth,
continuing with honesty rather than evasion, "destroying everything I
touched.  I am in your debt for that, if for nothing else."
     "I did it for Buffy, and for the people in this town, and all
those who you would have gone on to destroy," Giles said low and clearly.
     "I know."  There wasn't much more to be said.  An apology would be
a hideous joke, a promise to make it up would fall as flat as the
impossibility it was.  "I'm leaving."
    Giles' hand jerked, slightly.  After a moment, he said, "I think
that would be for the best.  Where will you go?"
     After a moment, Angel answered, "Telling anyone would defeat the
purpose of leaving."  Giles acknowledged that by barely inclining his head.
After a moment, Angel dropped the slender folder he carried onto a table
and silently left the library.
    It wasn't until much later that Giles moved out into the open part
of the library.  He opened the folder to find a drawing of Jenny, eyes
alive and lively, laughing as she coaxed him into dancing with her the
night the Master died.  There was humor and personality in her cheerful,
challenging grin, beauty and vulnerability in the fragile curve of her
neck.  And when she looked up at her unseen dance partner, there was love
in her eyes.
    Giles stared at it for several long moments.  Then he gently closed
the folder and put it aside.

***

Buffy Fanzines Premiering at Mediawest '98:
* An Alternate Viewpoint http://members.tripod.com/~natmerc/avzine.html *
* Sunnydale Slayers http://www-personal.umich.edu/~mwynn/zine.html

Lizbet -- [e-mail] ~ [e-mail]
"Carpe Speedo?" -- "<*thud*>" -- Kiki and Celli
"The hell with it. You can all read Typo." -- Perri
"Only you could make fandom sound like a carnal experience.
And a violent one at that." -- Chris

------------------------------

Date: Mon, 11 May 1998 07:47:28 -0700
From: Elizabeth Ann Lewis <[e-mail]>
Subject: BUFFYFIC: Full of Grace (1/3)

Author's notes:

Sarah McLachlin and Angel won't let me alone.  I started writing this the
day after Passion aired.  I apologize to each and every one of you; don't
kill me, or there won't be any hope of a sequel.

The song Full of Grace is on Sarah's latest album Surfacing.  If you
haven't heard Sarah... well, let's just say she does a GOOD job of
enhancing Buffy-angst.  < g >

Thanks (always!) to Perri and Chris.  A year and a day ago, you two, I was
pinned down helplessly in a hotel room and forced me to watch Buffy.  My
life has not been the same since.  To Dianne, who was trapped in the same
hotel room.  To my Roomie, who *looked* and all of a sudden Cordelia was in
the story.  To my own person fic-demon, MaryBeth, who must have set up an
auto-bot to e-mail me every week to demand this story.

Disclaimers:  Not mine, wouldn't torture them like this if they were, don't
sue.  Joss is God, and if he doesn't fix what's broken he's going to be in
TROUBLE!!!!

Praise, flames, chocolate and cute angsty vampires to [e-mail]

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Full of Grace

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
    He is aware of being restrained, chained down by flesh and iron to
earth.  His eyes sting from a blinding flash of light -- a flash that he
both remembers and doesn't remember.  Divided against himself, for a moment
there seems to be two separate consciousnesses in his body.
    Then with a force that nearly destroys him, the two merge into one.
A century or more passes before the pain -- physical, spiritual and psychic
- -- lessens enough to let him lift his head.  Five figures surround him, one
at each point of a pentagram scrawled on the ground.  He looks up -- into
her eyes.
    One moment, two passes.  And then he throws back his head and
screams his rage to the sky.  A demon's howl, coming from a human's soul.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**The winter here is cold
**And bitter
**Chills us to the bone.

    The apartment was cold, musty.  Disuse had left its marks in the
dust on the floor, spiders spinning ragged lace in corners.  He hadn't seen
the place since he had turned around and left Buffy shaking and crying in
the middle of the room.  The blood in the old refrigerator had spoiled,
making the enclosed, airless space smell like a butcher's shop, turning his
stomach.
    The memories turned it more.

**Haven't seen the sun for weeks
**Too long, too far from home

    Drawing littered the desk and walls, drawings of his past.
Somehow, after he met Buffy, he was able for the first time to resurrect
the images of his family, friends, human life.
    For the first time in two centuries, he could look into his
mother's eyes and remember her as the woman she had been, and not the
broken corpse he had left her.
    Now her eyes stared down at him from the wall, accusing, the
goddess Nemesis herself.

**I feel just like I'm sinking
**And I claw for solid ground.

    Angel scrubbed his face with his hands, clutching the thin thread
of his control.  Before, there had been nothing but rage.  The demon had
been furious that its merry devastation had been checked; the soul had been
anguished at being ripped from its rest and returned to hell on earth.
Within the vast confusion of the whys and wherefores, there had been no
room for anything but anger.
    The shame had come later.

**Pulled down by the undertow
**Never knew I could feel so alone
**Oh, darkness; I feel like letting go.

    He didn't have that blessed period of abeyance now.  He knew
exactly what he had done, to whom.  He knew how much it would torment and
destroy.  And he had done it so cheerfully, so full of demonic pleasure.
Every act, every moment, seen and imagined, had been a banquet for his
senses, the faintest drop in the ocean of his hatred for the girl who had
made him love again.
    The pain was a living thing, twisting in his belly, clawing its way
out of his throat in a tortured scream.  Blinded by pain and fury, he
ripped the drawings from the wall, reduced the desk itself to deadly shards
of splintered wood, shattered the glass case of Kwan Yin and the figure
within, venting his fury at God and fate and himself on silent, dumb
objects.  Things that were unable to see, unable to care.  Futilely beating
his fists against the wall, he wanted to shatter it, himself, the world, to
end the existence of anything and everything so that this moment itself
could end.
    He should have learned by now that random destruction didn't help
anyone.
    Slowly, his face pressed to the wall, he sank to the floor.  Lost
amidst the shards of glass and wood, the only sound were strangled, choked
sobs of defeat.  He no longer had the shell of nearly a century of solitude
to protect him from the pain.  It had been ripped away by the pity in the
Slayer's eyes when she asked him if he knew what it was like to have a
friend.  Somehow, he thought that he was unlikely to regain that protection
ever again.
    Scattered on the floor, his drawings faced him with a thousand
accusing eyes.  It was time to face the living ones.

**If all of the strength
**All of the courage
**Come and lift me from this place
**I know I can love you much better than this
**Full of grace.
**Full of grace, my love.

    The library was silent, dark except for a streak of light from one
corner.  He purposefully timed it so no one would be here but Giles.  He
couldn't face them all at the same time.  He needed to do this one by one.
    Moving forward, he could see a figure hunched over the desk, finger
tracing faded lines of text.  Behind him was a cot, bedclothes rumbled and
flung across its narrow, monkish width.  Giles had not spent a night at his
home since he had found his beloved lying dead there.  Angel didn't blame
him.
    Angel's hands curled into fists, fighting the urge to escape.  This
needed to be done.  He needed to do this.  Slowly, he moved forward until
movement out of the corner of his eye caught Giles' attention.  He turned
sharply, then stumbled back when he looked through the window of his office
and recognized the figure before him.  Automatically, Giles reached for the
long sword he kept with him at all times now.  Then his mind overruled his
fight instinct, recalling the spell, the ceremony, a soul returned.  The
hilt of the sword slid through his fingers and thumped gently back to his
desk.
     "Angel."  One word, uninflected and unemotional.  Last time they
had faced each other, alone, just the two of them, a baseball bat had been
blazing in Giles' hand and anguished rage had burned in his eyes.  Now
those eyes were flat grey and empty, expressionless through the clear glass
that separated them.
     "I wanted to thank you."
    Giles almost laughed, a little puff of air that had little of humor
in it.  "I hardly thought you would thank me for what I did."
     "You stopped me from...," Angel paused and gritted his teeth,
continuing with honesty rather than evasion, "destroying everything I
touched.  I am in your debt for that, if for nothing else."
     "I did it for Buffy, and for the people in this town, and all
those who you would have gone on to destroy," Giles said low and clearly.
     "I know."  There wasn't much more to be said.  An apology would be
a hideous joke, a promise to make it up would fall as flat as the
impossibility it was.  "I'm leaving."
    Giles' hand jerked, slightly.  After a moment, he said, "I think
that would be for the best.  Where will you go?"
     After a moment, Angel answered, "Telling anyone would defeat the
purpose of leaving."  Giles acknowledged that by barely inclining his head.
After a moment, Angel dropped the slender folder he carried onto a table
and silently left the library.
    It wasn't until much later that Giles moved out into the open part
of the library.  He opened the folder to find a drawing of Jenny, eyes
alive and lively, laughing as she coaxed him into dancing with her the
night the Master died.  There was humor and personality in her cheerful,
challenging grin, beauty and vulnerability in the fragile curve of her
neck.  And when she looked up at her unseen dance partner, there was love
in her eyes.
    Giles stared at it for several long moments.  Then he gently closed
the folder and put it aside.

***

Buffy Fanzines Premiering at Mediawest '98:
* An Alternate Viewpoint http://members.tripod.com/~natmerc/avzine.html *
* Sunnydale Slayers http://www-personal.umich.edu/~mwynn/zine.html

Lizbet -- [e-mail] ~ [e-mail]
"Carpe Speedo?" -- "<*thud*>" -- Kiki and Celli
"The hell with it. You can all read Typo." -- Perri
"Only you could make fandom sound like a carnal experience.
And a violent one at that." -- Chris

------------------------------

End of buffyfic-digest V2 #176
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