ftp.xmission.com/2014.06.ftp.xmission.com.tar/ftp.xmission.com/pub/lists/buffyfic/archive/v02.n380

Internet Message Format | 1998-11-29 | 43KB

From: [e-mail] (buffyfic-digest)
To: [e-mail]
Subject: buffyfic-digest V2 #380
Reply-To: $SENDER
Sender: [e-mail]
Errors-To: [e-mail]
Precedence: bulk


buffyfic-digest       Monday, November 30 1998       Volume 02 : Number 380



In this issue:

       BUFFYFIC: Thinking of Her (1/1)
       BUFFYFIC: Thinking of Her (1/1) (REPOST)
       BUFFYFIC: Hopeless Hope (2/?)
       BUFFYFIC: Hopeless Hope (3/?)
       BUFFYFIC: Xander's Incredible Journey (7b/?)

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: Sun, 29 Nov 1998 22:46:08 EST
From: [e-mail]
Subject: BUFFYFIC: Thinking of Her (1/1)

TITLE: Thinking of Her
AUTHOR: Danielle Loughlin
E-MAIL: [e-mail]
FEEDBACK: Very much welcomed!
DISTRIBUTION: If you like it, you may have it. Just tell me where it's going
and keep my name attached.
RATING: PG, angsty stuff
SPOILERS: through Lover's Walk
CONTENT: Willow/Oz

THINKING OF HER

I sit quietly on the pool table, alone except for the company of my guitar. I
am absentmindedly strumming the strings, not playing any melody or tune. My
mind isn't on the music anyway.

It's on her.

I'm the first to admit it. My mind is on her probably about 95% of the time.
The other 4% is on my music. And that missing 1%, well, I keep it to myself
what happens in that one percent.

Usually when I think of her, my thoughts are happy ones. She made me happy.
Makes me happy. She didn't even have to do anything. She could just simply be,
and I'd be happy because of it.

She's incredible. I love her red hair, it feels so silky and soft when I put
my hands in it. I love her smile. It's the sweetest smile you've ever seen. It
lights up my world, and when she smiles and her eyes sparkle, I'm gone. I love
everything about her, from her shyness and her resolve face and the fact she
keeps me company during those nights of the full moon. I can't talk to her,
but I know she's there. It's comforting.

I love her.

I love her despite of it.

It. Amazing how much pain can be inside such a small word. It.

She was kissing him.

When I saw them, it was as if someone had shot a silver bullet right through
my heart. At that moment, I wished someone had. It would hurt less than seeing
that.

I don't think I would have been able to do anything. I would have just stood
there until one of them saw me. But Cordelia reacted when I couldn't. "Oh,
god," Cordelia said.

"Oh, god," Xander replied.

She said just three words. "Oh, god. Oz." And I was thinking, please don't say
my name. When she says my name she makes it sound special. I love it when she
says my name. I don't want to hear it in a situation like this.

"We have to get out of here," I said. I don't know why I said it. It seemed
like the thing to say.

I just stood and looked at her, and she looked at me. Xander got up and
started to go after Cordelia. I didn't hear what he said. I barely registered
the running footsteps up the stairs. I was too busy staring at her. And she
couldn't not look at me. It was awful.

And then the crash, and Cordelia fell.

I'm the one who went to get help. Xander had to stay with Cordelia, and she
had to stay with Xander. I didn't belong there. So I went.

I haven't seen or spoken to her since.

I don't know what to say. Not that I've ever said much to begin with, but I
always had something to say to her.

Now my thoughts of her are mixed with sadness. Confusion. Doubt.

And it hurts so much. I don't cry very often. In fact, hardly ever. But I feel
like crying now. I feel like screaming and throwing things and breaking
things.

But I don't. It's just not what I do.

But as hurt as I am, I can't find it in me to be angry with her. I want to
hold her, kiss her, run my hands through her hair. I want her to smile at me.
I want to smile at her. I want to walk down the hall holding hands and have
her sit on my lap when there's chair shortages. I want to offer her canapes
and animal crackers and tell her about freeze frame and French monkeys. I like
it when she brags about me. I like it when she reads me stories while I'm
locked in the cage and the fact she's considerate enough to hang towels up for
me. I like it. I like her. As much as I love her, I like her. Does that make
sense? To me, it's making a kind of sense that's not, but anyway.

There's a noise behind me. She's here. Without even turning around, I know
it's her. I wait for her to come to me.

"Oz?" she asks. It feels like someone's squeezing my heart.  "Oz?" she
repeats, not sure if I heard her.

I put the guitar down on the pool table next to me. I look at her.

Her eyes. They're so full of pain. She's been crying. "Oz--I --," she starts.

I hop off the pool table, standing before her. Three days have passed since I
last saw her. She's a wreck. Her eyes are swollen and she's shaking.

"I don't deserve you," she says. "I deserve to lose you."

"Shh, baby, come here," I say, wrapping her in my arms.

It feels good to have her there. Even though it hurts so much, it feels good.
She's crying again, I can feel her sobbing into my shirt. I don't say
anything, I just stand and stroke her hair.

"I'm so stupid," she says through the tears. "I love you. I didn't realize how
much until I lost you."

She never said 'I love you' to me before.

I know it's not going to be easy. It's going to be awkward silences and
difficult conversations. Baby steps, rebuilding trust.

But she's worth it.

I know what I'm going to do.

I'm going to take her back.

Can you blame me?

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

Date: Sun, 29 Nov 1998 22:52:04 EST
From: [e-mail]
Subject: BUFFYFIC: Thinking of Her (1/1) (REPOST)

Oops forgot the disclaimer first time around!

TITLE: Thinking of Her
AUTHOR: Danielle Loughlin
E-MAIL: [e-mail]
FEEDBACK: Very much welcomed!
DISTRIBUTION: If you like it, you may have it. Just tell me where it's going
and keep my name attached.
RATING: PG, angsty stuff
SPOILERS: through Lover's Walk
CONTENT: Willow/Oz
DISCLAIMER: Willow, Oz, Cordelia, and Xander, are property of Joss & Co. I
just borrowed them for my story.

THINKING OF HER

I sit quietly on the pool table, alone except for the company of my guitar. I
am absentmindedly strumming the strings, not playing any melody or tune. My
mind isn't on the music anyway.

It's on her.

I'm the first to admit it. My mind is on her probably about 95% of the time.
The other 4% is on my music. And that missing 1%, well, I keep it to myself
what happens in that one percent.

Usually when I think of her, my thoughts are happy ones. She made me happy.
Makes me happy. She didn't even have to do anything. She could just simply be,
and I'd be happy because of it.

She's incredible. I love her red hair, it feels so silky and soft when I put
my hands in it. I love her smile. It's the sweetest smile you've ever seen. It
lights up my world, and when she smiles and her eyes sparkle, I'm gone. I love
everything about her, from her shyness and her resolve face and the fact she
keeps me company during those nights of the full moon. I can't talk to her,
but I know she's there. It's comforting.

I love her.

I love her despite of it.

It. Amazing how much pain can be inside such a small word. It.

She was kissing him.

When I saw them, it was as if someone had shot a silver bullet right through
my heart. At that moment, I wished someone had. It would hurt less than seeing
that.

I don't think I would have been able to do anything. I would have just stood
there until one of them saw me. But Cordelia reacted when I couldn't. "Oh,
god," Cordelia said.

"Oh, god," Xander replied.

She said just three words. "Oh, god. Oz." And I was thinking, please don't say
my name. When she says my name she makes it sound special. I love it when she
says my name. I don't want to hear it in a situation like this.

"We have to get out of here," I said. I don't know why I said it. It seemed
like the thing to say.

I just stood and looked at her, and she looked at me. Xander got up and
started to go after Cordelia. I didn't hear what he said. I barely registered
the running footsteps up the stairs. I was too busy staring at her. And she
couldn't not look at me. It was awful.

And then the crash, and Cordelia fell.

I'm the one who went to get help. Xander had to stay with Cordelia, and she
had to stay with Xander. I didn't belong there. So I went.

I haven't seen or spoken to her since.

I don't know what to say. Not that I've ever said much to begin with, but I
always had something to say to her.

Now my thoughts of her are mixed with sadness. Confusion. Doubt.

And it hurts so much. I don't cry very often. In fact, hardly ever. But I feel
like crying now. I feel like screaming and throwing things and breaking
things.

But I don't. It's just not what I do.

But as hurt as I am, I can't find it in me to be angry with her. I want to
hold her, kiss her, run my hands through her hair. I want her to smile at me.
I want to smile at her. I want to walk down the hall holding hands and have
her sit on my lap when there's chair shortages. I want to offer her canapes
and animal crackers and tell her about freeze frame and French monkeys. I like
it when she brags about me. I like it when she reads me stories while I'm
locked in the cage and the fact she's considerate enough to hang towels up for
me. I like it. I like her. As much as I love her, I like her. Does that make
sense? To me, it's making a kind of sense that's not, but anyway.

There's a noise behind me. She's here. Without even turning around, I know
it's her. I wait for her to come to me.

"Oz?" she asks. It feels like someone's squeezing my heart.  "Oz?" she
repeats, not sure if I heard her.

I put the guitar down on the pool table next to me. I look at her.

Her eyes. They're so full of pain. She's been crying. "Oz--I --," she starts.

I hop off the pool table, standing before her. Three days have passed since I
last saw her. She's a wreck. Her eyes are swollen and she's shaking.

"I don't deserve you," she says. "I deserve to lose you."

"Shh, baby, come here," I say, wrapping her in my arms.

It feels good to have her there. Even though it hurts so much, it feels good.
She's crying again, I can feel her sobbing into my shirt. I don't say
anything, I just stand and stroke her hair.

"I'm so stupid," she says through the tears. "I love you. I didn't realize how
much until I lost you."

She never said 'I love you' to me before.

I know it's not going to be easy. It's going to be awkward silences and
difficult conversations. Baby steps, rebuilding trust.

But she's worth it.

I know what I'm going to do.

I'm going to take her back.

Can you blame me?

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

Date: Sun, 29 Nov 1998 23:34:53 EST
From: [e-mail]
Subject: BUFFYFIC: Hopeless Hope (2/?)

Title: Hopeless Hope (2/?)
Author: Meg R-C
Distribution: Sure, but just tell me first
Feedback: Pretty please with a cherry on top!
Disclaimer: I own nothing. The basis for this story belongs to Anya, and the
characters belong to Joss Whedon and the WB
Rating: If you can watch the show, you can read this
Summary: A sequel to Anya's Gone. Xander is dying and his final wish is for
the gang to be reunited.

    She was so cold, so callous, uncaring and unsympathetic towards Willow's
grief.  At one time, what seemed an eternity ago, she would have taken Willow
into her arms, crying for her friends pain.
    Willow had fallen asleep quickly, leaving Buffy and I in uncomfortable
silence.
    "Angel."  My head snapped up at the sound of her voice.  She was staring at
me
with large pain-filled eyes; she was too tired to keep up the mask.
    "Yes," I answered as gently as possible, trying to keep the hope out of my
voice.
    "Did you ever think about us?"  She wasn't referring to us, as in me and her,
but as in those who had stayed behind in Sunnydale.
    "Every moment of everyday," I answered her honestly.
    She smiled at me then, a smile full of age, and grief, and pain, and ...
fear.
    "I'm so afraid," She admitted softly, "Xander's...he's everything.  He's all
I have."
    How much I wanted to go to her then, to wrap my arms around her, tell her
everything would be all right, that she still had me, that she would always
have me.
    Instead I settled for squeezing her hand.  She smiled at me warily, knowing
everything that I hadn't told her.
    We rode the rest of the way in comfortable silence.


    Nothing has changed in Sunnydale since my departure almost five years ago.
When
darkness comes the creatures of the night still go on the prowl, and the
Slayer still goes on
the hunt.
    To be honest I didn't think that Buffy would live this long.  From what
Angel's told
me, and what Giles told me before that, most don't survive their teens.  One
time while
surfing the net I learned that the oldest Slayer in history lived to be 21.
Buffy was now 22,
almost 23.  I wonder if she knew that she was living on borrowed time.  I hope
she didn't, I
hope no one's told her she's the oldest Slayer in history.  I can't really see
her taking it too
well.
    "We're here," Buffy announced, pulling into the driveway of the old Chase
mansion.
    Buffy shot me an odd look.  "Cordelia left it to Xander in her will.  We use
it as a
base of operations because of its huge library and close proximity to the
hospital."
    "Oh."  Maybe I should just keep my mouth shut.  Every time I say something
its the
wrong thing.
    Oh well, I sighed, at least she hasn't staked me yet.

    "Mommy!  Mommy!  Mommy!"  A small girl came flying out of nowhere and into
Buffy's waiting arms.
    "Hope, I missed you," Buffy cooed, hugging her tightly.
    I glanced at Willow who looked as shocked as I felt.  Buffy had a daughter?!
Did
that mean she was married?  Who was the father?  Was it Xander?! As these
thoughts
occurred to me I could see they were simultaneously occurring to Willow.
    Her eyes filled with betrayal, the thoughts of Buffy with Xander evident on
her
face. I couldn't help but feel betrayed, Buffy had been with another man. But
then again,
what had I expected? She was an attractive young woman who thought we were
never
coming back. Why should she faithful to a memory? After all, I was the one who
left
without saying good-bye. I was the one who broke her heart.
    "Mommy, are those the people from Uncle Xander's picture?" Hope pointed to
us.
Uncle Xander. Cross him off the list.
    "Yes, baby they are. These are my old friends, Angel and Miss Rosenburg. This
is
my daughter Hope."  While Buffy's eyes were warm when she gazed at her
daughter, they
cooled more than a couple of degrees when turned on Willow or me.
    "Hi," the child peered out from behind her mother, giving me clear look at
her.  She
had long dark brown hair that curled slightly, like Buffy's.  Her eyes were
like chocolate,
large for such a small face.  After that she was the picture of her mother,
down to the
shape of her tiny hands, which were presently clutching her mother's.
    "Hope, why don't you show Angel your playroom?  I'm sure he's love to play
Barbies with you.  He could play Ken."  Buffy smiled down at her daughter, the
humor of
the situation completely lost on me.  What are Barbies and who is Ken?
    Buffy was looking at me expectantly.
    "Sure, why not?"  I knew Buffy wanted Willow and Xander to be reunited in
private.  Plus, that wasn't really my thing, too much emotion made me
uncomfortable.

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

Date: Mon, 30 Nov 1998 01:01:50 EST
From: [e-mail]
Subject: BUFFYFIC: Hopeless Hope (3/?)

Title: Hopeless Hope (3/?)
Author: Meg R-C
Distribution: Sure, but just tell me first
Feedback: Pretty please with a cherry on top!
Disclaimer: I own nothing. The basis for this story belongs to Anya, and the
characters belong to Joss Whedon and the WB
Rating: If you can watch the show, you can read this
Summary: A sequel to Anya's Gone. Xander is dying and his final wish is for
the gang to be reunited.

    I watched as Buffy's daughter took Angel's hand, leading him away with the
innocence that only children possess.  She didn't care about who he was, what
he was, where he's been, or what he'd done. All she cared about was the fact
that he was willing to play Barbies with her.
    Thinking about what would happen to her, as with every child before her, made
me want to lay down and weep.  Someday she would learn to judge others, to
fear others.  Someday very soon she would learn the meaning of death and
eternity.  Someday soon she would learn to fear the night.  Her innocence
would be gone, nothing could stop that, I only hope that she would not grow
hardened to death, as we all have. I pray God forgives us our sins and
protects Hope, the only good left in any of us.
    "Are you ready?" Buffy's voice brought me out of my reverie, and back to the
present.  It was time to see him, to face him.
    I nodded, but really I wanted to turn around and run. Running was the
coward's way out, but I never pretended to be brave.
    She led me down a corridor that seemed to go on forever. All too soon, and
yet not fast enough, we were at the door.  On the other side lay my one and
only love, my childhood friend, Xander.
    "Be gentle," Buffy reminded me, turning to go.
    "Wait!" I grabbed her arm, "You're not coming in?" Please, pleas come in.
    "No," she shook her head, "you have to face the music alone."  With that, she
was gone.
    I took a deep breath, and before I had a chance to change my mind, I opened
the door and entered the past.
    Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. Once so full of life and
energy, he lay on a white bed, surrounded by machines, and covered with wires.
He was even skinnier than he used to be, and his face was grey with pain and
impending death. His eyes were closed, and if it weren't for the steady
pounding of his heart echoeing in my vampiric ears I would have thought he was
dead.
    "Hello Willow."  I jumped a foot in the air. His eyes were still closed, and
he didn't appear to have moved at all.
    "I only get two visitors," It was as if he could read my mind, "Hope runs
around and jumps on the bed, and Buffy doesn't hesitate in the doorway."
    At last his eyes opened, focusing on me, boring into my soul.
    He motioned me closer. "Its been five years and you can't even say hello?" He
smiled at me.
    I smiled back, it was all I could do to keep from crying.  Finally I found my
voice, choking on the words, "Hello Xander."
    I had moved forward to the bed, and was surprised when he took my hand.
    "I missed you," he said.
    "I missed you, too," I whispered, finally letting my tears free.


    I finally found Buffy sitting on the back porch, staring out at the stars.
Hope had just fallen asleep, Barbies in hand, so I had gone off in search of
Buffy.
    "Hey,"  I slid into the chair next to her.
    "I guess you want to know who she is, huh?" She didn't look at me.
    I didn't say anything, just waited for her to continue.
    "Her whole name is Alexndria Hope Summers. I named her after the only two
things that I had left, Xander, and the hope that someday you would come back
to me." Buffy turned her head, "You're wondering who the father is, aren't
you?
    "Well I'll save you the suspense. It's you. When you left I was three months
pregnant with our children."
    I stared at her in shock. But I couldn't be a father, vampires couldn't have
kids. Wait, children?!
    "Thats right. I was carrying twin baby girls. I named them Hope and Angela.
But then, when they were two months old, Lynn came to town. She had this crazy
idea of sending the world to hell by opening the link between our realm and
the demon realm.  But in order to do that she needed the power of a Slayer and
a vampire together. There are two ways to do this, turn the Slayer into a
vampire, or take the child of such a union. They grabbed me and Angela, but
one of the vampires forgot that an infant is more fragile than a normal human,
no matter who its parents are.  He dropped her, and snapped her neck. I was
standing right there when it happened."
    Without thinking I stood up and gathered her in my arms.  She clung to me
like a scared child.  It was a wonder she was still sane.  I wanted to cry out
at the unfairness of it all.  My daughter had died before I ever met her,
killed by my own kind.  But I just stood there, shaking with sorrow and rage,
holding Buffy like there was no tomorrow.
    "There's more."  I heard her whisper.  We seperated and she motioned me to
sit back down.  Grudgingly I did as she asked.  How could there be more.
    "Once she realized that Angela would be of no use to her dead, she flew into
a rage.  After that she got sloppy, declaring that she would be the one to
'make me'.  When she got close enough I struck out at her.  We fought, but she
had already started the ritual.  She had absorbed the power to join the
dimensions into her.  When I staked her the energy went wild.  Not one vampire
survived its rage, and it nearly destroyed me.  Through some ide effect of the
ritual my powers increased by half, and I became immortal.
    "The Watcher Council was thrilled, and eternal Slayer.  Only one thing can
kill me.  They found it in a prophecy two months later. 'And the eternal
Slayer shall rise, and naught shall destroy her but the sword bearing true
love's blood swung by true love's hand'.  It means that only you can kill me."
    Buffy immortal? I'm the only one that can kill her?  What kind of sick,
twisted game was fate playing this time.  What God could sacrifice a being
such as Buffy to eternal suffrage?
    "Oh Buffy," I pulled her back into my arms, and we stayed that way until
dawn, when I had to go inside to avoid the sun.
    All I knew was that I would never leave her again.  We would be together for
eternity, as long as we both shall live


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

Date: Mon, 30 Nov 1998 12:22:35 PST
From: "Cutter Kinseeker" <[e-mail]>
Subject: BUFFYFIC: Xander's Incredible Journey (7b/?)

     Since the whole story didn't post properly last time, I'm trying
again.

TITLE: "Xander's Incredible Journey"
AUTHOR: Cutter Kinseeker
E-MAIL: [e-mail]
FEEDBACK: Yes! Yes! Yes! Tell me what you think, but constructive
criticism only please. No "it sucks" type messages.
DISTRIBUTION: Ask me first.
RATING: Mostly PG-13 for language and adult themes. A couple of parts
will be R.
DESCRIPTION: In the aftermath of "Becoming," Xander sets out after Buffy
and winds up "becoming" in his own right. Xander and Cordelia find
themselves at odds in Las Vegas when they run across an old enemy. The
"two mysterious strangers" from Chapter Five(e) are revealed, and they
mess with Xander's mind.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: For those of you who were waiting for the newest
installation of XIJ, I'd like to apologize for taking so long. As you
may notice, this chapter approaches 10,000 words in size! That took a
long time to write, plus the fact that I had writer's block for a couple
of weeks, and the power went down one day and I had to rewrite almost
2000 words of the story. But finally, here it is. Tell me what you
think!
DISCLAIMER: I don't own jack. Correction--jack's probably the only thing
I do own. The rest belongs to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the Frog
Network.
SPOILERS: Everything up to "Becoming".

***

    Xander hated Las Vegas from almost the moment they crossed the city
lines. To him it embodied all of the worst aspects of his species:
greed, careless ambition, avarice, undirected desires, a thousand untold
and unseen vices. Its shadowy alleys and gaudily lit streets both held
the threat and lure of total oblivion. It was a place where form was
more important than function or even content, where looks and style were
the only things that mattered. In its neon confines, anything could be
bought or sold, even human life. It was the antithesis of everything
Xander believed in; simply being in the city brought him close to
nausea.
    Had he and Cordelia discussed their feelings on their present locale,
he would have found himself unsurprised by how much Cordelia liked it.
Despite her significant advances of the last year, she still all too
often placed the chic and the vogue above the practical and the
necessary. Las Vegas was a purely created place, as much a fiction in
its own way as Oz or Atlantis; it was like being trapped in a huge
amusement park for adults rather than children. The glamour and glitz of
the city appealed to Cordelia's (admittedly twisted) aesthetic ideals: a
place based entirely on artifice and sensation, where only the moment
mattered and the future was an abstract instead of a reality that must
be faced.
    As they drove down the streets looking for a relatively cheap place to
stay, they were both silent--Xander in mild disgust, Cordelia in amused
wonder. Xander looked over at her, ready to share a snide comment on the
facade of society that a place so obviously predatory wore to lure
people in, then caught himself as he saw her face. Her expression was
close to that of a child who was expecting clothes for Christmas but had
gotten a pony instead. He knew he would get no sympathy from her on this
subject (did he ever?), and it wasn't really worth starting an argument
over. He sighed, choked back his remark, and concentrated on watching
the road for a place to spend the night.
    Distracted as he was by the seething tide of humanity and the flashing
expanse of neon lights penning them in on all sides, he didn't really
notice the drunk until they were right on top of him. This made it
doubly ironic, as he still saw the man before Cordelia, who was driving.
Xander caught a flash of movement in his peripheral vision, turned to
look out the windshield, and let out a scream of panic well before
Cordelia even noticed that the road was no longer clear. The car plowed
into the drunk, sending him rolling up the hood and across the
windshield's support bar; he was hit crossways, so that the impact
didn't shatter the front window, though it did create a hairline crack
about six inches long. Cordelia, seeing a human body flying towards her,
let out a small squeak of terror and slammed on the brakes hard. Xander
flew forward and was prevented from crashing into the dashboard only by
his seatbelt.
    The next few seconds were a blur, and Xander had virtually no idea of
how he got out of the car and onto the street. Cordelia had been reduced
to little more than a whimpering ball of denial, incapable of even
undoing her seatbelt, let alone helping the ill-fated individual they
had run into. The few people that Xander noticed roving about on the
sidewalks had next to no interest in the accident, though scanty number
milled about nearby, obviously hoping that someone had died or that the
police were on their way and they could see an actual arrest. The rest
were either typical city-dwellers, denying they had seen anything by
their unceasing motion away from the accident, or people who were
genuinely callous enough to notice but not care. So it was that Xander
had no help or hindrance in examining the drunk's prone body.
    He knelt next to the crumpled figure, feeling a slight twinge of
deja-vu at the drunk's tattered black duster; he dismissed it as
disorientation from such a long car ride followed by such a sudden stop
and continued to examine the victim. As Xander neared the person, he
found that his original assessment as "drunk" had been right on the
money; the individual on the ground smelled strongly of cheap whiskey
and cheaper living, mixed in with a metallic tang that Xander felt he
should recognize but could not for all of the alcohol in the air. A
broken bottle of something that looked like it was brewed in a bathtub
lay a few inches from the figure's gloved hand. A heavy woolen knit cap
was pulled low on the drunk's head, but a sparse few white hairs poked
out from beneath it where it had ridden up in the back. The hair was cut
short and bristly; it reminded Xander insanely of Billy Idol.
    A chill went up Xander's back. He tried to ignore it, to force himself
not to touch the drunk until the police and ambulance arrived; he
remembered from first aid that you shouldn't move an accident victim. He
listened closely, then made his choice. If it was who he thought it
was--and he desperately hoped it wasn't--then it wouldn't matter. If it
wasn't, it was already too late for an ambulance; the individual in
question was not breathing. With a heart heavy with apprehension, Xander
reached unsteadily out and flipped the drunk over onto his back.
    He stared for a few moments, considering. *Once the level of
coincidence in your life rises above a certain point, he thought, you
must question either your sanity or the coincidences. Since my sanity is
obviously no worse than usual, then I must ask myself: if coincidences
are just coincidences, then why do they feel so contrived?* He broke off
his line of thought as he heard distant, but rapidly approaching,
sirens. Struggling with a choice between conscience and caution,
interest and ire, the curious portion of his brain won out. He shrugged
the drunk's weight onto his shoulders and began to half-drag, half-walk
him to Cordelia's car.
    Before Cordelia could protest, he tossed the drunk into the back seat
and told her to drive. She did so, pausing only once to look in the
rear-view mirror and scrutinize their guest. She nearly ran off the road
when she recognized him, but a stern look from Xander forced her
attention back to driving. As Xander busied himself by tying the hands
of their passenger, he could hear Cordelia mutter "Oh, God--God damn
it!" over and over again under her breath.
    When he woke up, Spike was going to have a lot of explaining to do.

***

    The voices were becoming louder, clearer, closer, more annoying. He
grumbled in his sleep, something incomprehensible but obviously
negative. The voices didn't stop, instead reaching new pitches of
staccato aggravation. Words started to percolate through his brain,
pieces of conversation bringing him slowly out of the depths of cool,
pleasant oblivion back into the nightmare that was his life. Someone
would die for his pain--as soon as he could move again, that was. He
tested his limbs slightly and found that he was bound to something,
probably a chair, with lots of rope, some handcuffs, and--oh, my
word!--even a length of chain. Someone was going to a lot of trouble to
keep him immobile. Good; that meant they were taking him seriously.
    "He's dangerous, and he's evil--not to mention totally gross!" said an
indignant--and familiar--female voice. Well, he couldn't help but agree
with the first two, but he had never considered himself "gross." In
fact, it had always been a point of pride for Spike that he was quite a
"handsome devil," as it were.
    "Maybe," came the reluctant reply, said in such a low tone that he
couldn't tell if he recognized the speaker or not. "But there's
something strange going on. What's he doing here, of all places? Why
didn't Buffy kill him when she took on Angel?"
    Ah, now he knew the voices. The Slayer's little brat-friends: the
nancy-boy and his grope-girl. Where were the nerd and the wolf? Not to
mention that damned Watcher? It didn't matter. All that mattered was
that he had gotten lazy and he had gotten himself caught; smart demons
didn't live long doing that sort of thing. Angelus had taught him that:
never get caught with your pants down. Of course, Angelus had turned out
to be a complete psychopath (instead of just a run-of-the-mill sociopath
like himself) and nearly ruined everything. At any rate, it was time to
get up; his internal clock told him that it was still a good three hours
before dawn and the annihilating sun, so it was as good a time as any to
put the fear of God--or someone, at least--into the brats.
    He shot his eyes open and simultaneously shifted into his demonic
visage, eliciting a slight squeak from the girl, Cordelia.
Unfortunately, changing shape jostled his head, making the pain from his
hangover boil up all over again. Any impressive effect from assuming his
game face was instantly negated by the sight of him immediately
returning to human form, groaning in agony, and puking all over the
front of his shirt; the rancid smell of blood-tinged vomit almost made
him throw up again, but he fought it back.
    When his vision cleared, he saw Xander looming over him--and did he
detect just the slightest hint of smug satisfaction on the boy's face?
Or was it something even more terrible--like pity? He changed again,
ignoring the pain, and began to thrash against his bonds. The pain of
his hangover was nothing compared to the fury of his rage--of the
demon's rage--within him. It had grown strong over two hundred years'
worth of nights, battling in the endless torment of existence to find
some measure of equilibrium between its animal madness and the human
intellect of the man who had once been called William. While most of
that balance was based on externalizing his torment and on releasing the
beast when he could, he still had enough of his human intelligence to
know when he could win and when he couldn't.
    Which was why, when Spike saw that Xander had pulled a sharpened pool
cue and was brandishing it in his direction, he immediately ceased
struggling. He submerged the demon--though it did not go without
protest--and simply looked at the whelp with an affected air of disdain
and contempt.
    "That's better," said Xander, lowering the pool cue slightly, but still
keeping it ready for action. "You know, Spike, you really should be more
grateful to your rescuers. If it hadn't been for us, you'd still be
passed out in the middle of the street when dawn came... or worse yet,
in the hospital. I bet that the doctors and police would have some...
interesting... questions about your condition." Xander snorted at the
idea, knowing that the police were almost always deeply stupid about
such things.
    "Why am I here?" asked Spike haughtily, his tone suggesting that being
tied up in a chair with his vomit dripping down his shirt was no
different than if it were the two teenagers who were tied up in his
warehouse lair... except that the warehouse was no more; Angelus had
seen to that. Thinking of that idiot nearly made him lose his cool, but
remembering his sire's fate calmed him down again. "Answer me now, or
it'll be worse for you when I get out of this."
    "You're assuming," said Xander with a smile, "that we intend to let you
out of this. That particular assumption depends on any number of
factors, not the least of which is your willingness to cooperate."
    "Quit talking like Giles already," complained Cordelia, who was
maintaining a safe distance from their prisoner, afraid of Spike in
spite of his captivity. "I still say you should have just staked him."
She looked over at Spike with a nervous smile. "No offense intended or
anything, but you *are* a monster, you know."
    "None taken," murmured Spike, his headache gone now due to the
influence of the demon. He sighed; the amount of time it took a vampire
to get drunk was almost worth it when you considered how short the
hangovers were. "And, yes, I do know that I'm a monster. Sort of proud
of it, actually."
    "I'm not surprised," muttered Xander darkly. "Let's get right to the
point. What's a high-class freak-job like you doing in a place like Las
Vegas?"
    "I think you just answered your own question," returned Spike, getting
into the spirit of the interrogation. He smiled; he had been on both
ends of this sort of inquiry before, and in two hundred years he had
never been the loser. "Las Vegas: home of casinos and showgirls and..."
He paused in mock reverence for a moment. "...and Wayne Newton. Just
brings a bloody tear to your eye, don't it? Well, anyway, what brings
the two of you to the modern-day Gomorrah? Getting married, are you?"
    Xander paled visibly at the thought, then shook off his terror as he
remembered that Spike was the one in the big chair and he was the one
asking the questions.
    "Not anytime soon," Xander replied with mock sincerity. He pointedly
ignored Cordelia's surprised look at the idea that they might ever get
married, then continued. "What happened, man? I thought for sure you
were toast when the Buffster stormed Crawford Street."
    "Well, as you have seen before, vampires are sorta like roaches: We can
survive anything. Remember the time your bunch dropped a burning
cathedral on me?" His voice decreased to a conspiratorial whisper. "I
still owe you for that."
    "I'm terribly afraid," responded Xander with a biting sarcasm that
didn't manage to cover the fact that he really was scared of Spike.
"Come to think of it, you weren't the only one we dropped that church
on. Drusilla was there too." Spike started straight up at the mention of
Drusilla's name, then tried to cover his lapse with a bit of posturing.
"Looks like I hit a nerve. Well, Spike, what about it? Where's *your*
girl?" Spike's sullen silence was the only answer Xander received, so he
discontinued that line of questioning.
    "Okay," he started again, "let's talk about how you got away from Buffy
and why you're in Las Vegas of all places."
    "You mean she didn't tell you when she sent you after me? Kind of
sloppy of the Slayer, if you ask me. If she was going to use her friends
to hunt me down, she should have at least told you why." He shook his
head and sighed. "What's become of the forces of good these days? I tell
you, in my day..."
    "Buffy didn't send us after you," blurted out Cordelia in confusion.
"We just sort of ran into you while we were passing through..."
    "Bollocks!" interrupted Spike, finally becoming really angry. "There's
no way in Hell you could have run into me by accident! What d'you take
me for, a bleedin' idiot?!" Xander noticed that as Spike became
agitated, his accent grew ever thicker, the Cockney youth he had once
been becoming more apparent. "Why did the thrice-damned Slayer send you
after me?! And if she was going to break her word, why didn't she have
the nerve to come gunning for me herself?!"
    "Her word...?" murmured Xander, more to himself than to Spike.
    "That's right! We had an agreement, me an' her! I help her take down
her fallen Angel and let her Watcher escape, and she lets me an' Dru go
free. That was the agreement, anyway. And look, I know I gave her my
word that I'd leave the country, and I was on my way to do just that,
but I hit a little snag..."
    "And drank yourself into a stupor," concluded Xander. "Funny, I didn't
think that vampires could eat or drink."
    "Eat, no. Drink, yeah. None of that 'I never drink... wine...'
nonsense. As long as there's a little blood in it to fool the demon, we
can drink whatever we want. We just need more booze than humans to get
drunk, and..." He started, realizing what he was saying. "And why the
bloody devil am I telling you this! Let me go, damn it!" With that, he
began his struggles anew, though there was no hope of breaking the
bonds.
    Xander sighed and shook his head as he walked away. They were no closer
to understanding this than when they had started, and several new
questions had appeared as well. It could wait, he decided, until he and
Cordelia had gotten some sleep. But one of them would have to stay up
and watch their prisoner to make sure he didn't try anything.
    "Cordy, how are you in the sleep department?" he asked her once he had
pulled her a sufficient distance from Spike.
    "A word, mate!" Spike shouted from across the room. "Vampires have
pretty good hearing; if you really want a private conversation, you'd
best leave the room and go down the street a ways. I assure you, it
won't inconvenience me at all." He smiled crookedly. Xander frowned and
then returned to Cordelia, this time dropping all pretense of being
quiet.
    "Well," she said, understanding his reasoning, "I've slept since you
have. I'll take first watch, and you sleep in the next room." Before he
could admonish her on being careful, she added: "And don't worry about
me. I'm not about to take any chances with Spike; if anything happens,
I'll scream and stake him--or maybe the other way around, but you can be
sure that there'll be some screaming and stake-action if he gets rowdy.
I'll wake you up a few hours after dawn, okay?"
    He nodded his assent and, feeling very sleepy indeed, kissed her
goodnight. Ignoring the snide comments from Spike, he made his way to
the adjoining room, made sure not to close the door, and fell asleep on
the bed without even bothering to undress.
    Spike looked at Cordelia; she looked back at him. His stare was more
intimidating than hers, but his smile suggested nothing but merriment in
his heart. He cocked his head to the side and opened his mouth to speak.
    "You don't happen to play rummy, do you?"


Continued in next message...


Cutter Kinseeker
- -Chieftain of the Wolfriders
- -Holder of New Moon, artifact sword
- -Slayer of the dreaded beast Madcoil
- -Keeper of Xander's firm belief that he could take Angelus with the help
of a bunch of orderlies, cops, doctors, and nurses (KBD)
- -Keeper of Xander's derisive sneer at Angelus (KBD)
- -Keeper of Xander's jaunty stake-whittling tune ("School Hard")
- -Keeper of Willow's longing gaze at Xander while he talks about the
unattainable ("Some Assembly Required")
- -Keeper of Giles' masochistic need to spar with Buffy
- -Keeper of Cordelia's divine request for aspirin ("School Hard")
- -Keeper of Buffy's need for a warning label (KBD)

"AYOOOOOOOOAAAAAAHHH!!!!"
          --Cutter Kinseeker

"From famine to feast and back to famine again."
          --Skywise

Visit the Holt of Cutter Kinseeker
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Chamber/2234/


______________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free Email at http://www.hotmail.com

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

End of buffyfic-digest V2 #380
******************************

To subscribe to buffyfic or buffyfic-digest, send the command

    subscribe buffyfic-digest

    or

    subscribe buffy

to [e-mail].  You will need to go through a
confirmation process, and the listowners have to manually
approve your subscription request, so it may take some time.

To unsubscribe, send email to [e-mail] with

     unsubscribe buffyfic-digest

     or

     unsubscribe buffyfic

in the body.

Back issues of this digest can be found at:

    ftp://ftp.xmission.com/pub/lists/buffyfic/archive/

Dalton Spence has also provided an index of the buffyfic archive at:

    http://www.hwcn.org/~ag775/BUFFYFIC.HTM

For help, contact Jill Kirby ([e-mail]) or sah ([e-mail])