I don't think shrift is ever in this thread. Anyway, I got to Leviathan fine. (And I got your e-mail and will reply when I'm finished nursing husband through job crisis.)

No rush, and I'm very sorry to hear of the crisis. It seems to have been a temporary hang on Leviathan.

Sorry if that sounded curt. I was trying to talk on the phone at the same time, usually a mistake.

Is he safely docked at the port of Sanity?

Eh. The crisis is averted, but he's at the point of telling his boss to go fuck himself. As this would result in us having no benefits, I'm trying to avoid that. And this is hugely off-topic. I'll e-mail you about it.

Plei posted this elsewhere, but since the story was originally serialized here: my last fan fic, "In the City," is now up:

[link]

You mean latest, not last, right, Victor?

t hopeful and pedantic

Yikes. Latest. Hell, I'm not even done with "Yesterday's Guitars" yet, although I'm not happy with the last two sections and may rework them. Don't think I'm capturing Future!Dawn's disorientation quite right, and my Andrew's... off. Also, I need to get everybody into one place soon, or it's going to start dragging.

Need to abandon the structure I've been using, too. It's kind of limiting.

this is getting great response over on LJ, so I'll share. Setting: my idea S6, with Giles coming back earlier and upsetting incidents in bathrooms not happening

Being in the wrong and having to apologize was bad enough. Angel rather prided himself, though, on getting to the point where he could recognize the need to apologize, especially without Cordelia poking him.

But this--

He stared at Giles, hoping the man would suddenly give a Ripper-esque smile of satisfaction that he'd put one over on Angel. Heaven knew Angel deserved any number of revenges from Giles, petty or profound.

"You're not serious," he said finally, unable to hold out any longer.

Giles just shook his head as he watched Angel from the other side of the Magic Box counter. "I'm not the one you need to apologize to--this time."

They both looked away from each other until the moment passed.

"But--them . . ." Angel said.

"I'm afraid so." And there was Ripper peeking out. "It was their plan you disrupted, a plan which, quite to my surprise, was working quite well."

"Since when the hell have Spike and Xander been working together?"

Giles' left hand came up halfway to his face, then he reached for a chunky cluster of amethyst crystals on the counter to fidget with. "They, um--since the wedding didn't happen, Spike and Xander have-- well, Xander said something about male companionship close to his own age."

"Spike's nearly a hundred and fifty years old, alive and dead."

"I'm fairly sure he meant mentally."

Angel nodded in understanding. "Still, you let them go out against demons together?"

"Let? I wasn't able to be here for the wedding, and by the time I got here, the two of them were already settled into their bizarre buddy movie and the girls were looking relieved and amused."

"Even Buffy?"

Angel smelled sudden blood as a chunk of the amethyst cluster broke off, but Giles showed no sign. "Buffy--is one of the most relieved. Something about them distracting each other."

"From what?"

Giles put the crystals down firmly. "Perhaps you can ask them. I have work to do."

Angel took the blatant hint and left.

Another demonic drug ring had popped up, using one of the outlying hangers at LAX as a trading area. Various suppliers brought their goods to the hanger, where the brokers set up shipments to go around the world. When Angel had gone to poke around, he overheard complaints about someone named Doc up on the Hellmouth who was getting more and more demanding about his percentage. The description of the vampire in the long leather coat and bleached hair had been enough to tell Angel that his next stop was Sunnydale.

And what had he found in the back room of that truck stop by the freeway but Spike drinking whiskey with demonic representatives of the drug ring--and Xander Harris sullenly leaning against a wall. Questions about Slayer interference in the business had been raised; Spike had sneered and waved his whiskey glass at Xander, pointing out that their man on the inside would keep the Slayer away from things that didn't concern her. Only the look of mingled fear and disgust that Xander had sent towards Spike had kept Angel from bursting in and breaking up the whole thing. He lurked outside, waiting to see if Xander was being coerced into helping--only to be pounced on by an equally lurking Buffy, who demanded to know why he was trying to ruin everything.

Now Giles had confirmed Buffy's story of Spike and Xander concocting a way to break the Sunnydale connection with a masquerade that had already gone on for two months. And Angel had nearly ruined everything, risking both the masquerade and Spike and Xander's lives.

It turned out the two of them were all but living together in Xander's apartment, with Spike's old crypt serving as meeting place for demons. Angel pulled up in front of Xander's apartment building, practicing his greeting so the first words out of his mouth weren't "Please tell me you have separate bedrooms."

He knocked on (continued...)

( continues...) Xander's door. A minute later, he knocked again, louder.

"Keep your hair gel on!" came the dreaded, familiar voice.

The door opened; Angel braced himself, but he wasn't prepared to see Spike in all his naked glory, hair every which way, reeking of recent sex, and smiling in a pleased, predatory way that said payback was a bitch.

"Toldja," Spike called over his shoulder, then he leaned against the door frame. He sniffed audibly. "So . . . Slayer's word wasn't good enough, you had to double-check with Rupert, eh?"

"I--"

Xander came out of the bedroom, rubbing his eyes and running his fingers through his hair. He wore long, loose pants and nothing else. "Jesus, Spike, put something on or close the door. I've got neighbors."

"And your neighbors know you've got me."

"And they don't need to know everything you've got."

Angel barely listened. This was Xander Harris? Where was the lanky, twitchy teenager whose every molecule screamed inferiority issues? This young man was rolling his shoulders and twisting his torso, loosening his spine. Dark, sardonic eyes met Angel's through a fall of thick hair without any kind of flinch or apology.

"He's spoken for," Spike said flatly. "What are you doing here?"

Angel pulled his attention away from Xander. At least he knew what to expect from Spike. Which, he realized, was part of the problem. He'd seen Spike's challenging glare before, but it was the old, darker instincts that stirred in response. Angelus would only have allowed that challenge as long as it amused him, then slapped it away before re-establishing his dominance. Angel debated turning around and letting the apology go unsaid rather than allow himself to be in any sort of submissive position to Spike.

Xander went to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of water. "Maybe he's here to apologize for nearly fucking up that meeting with Grozier."

"Not hardly," Spike snorted. "This one doesn't apologize for anything."

Angel had to twitch at that. "Actually--look, can I come in?"

"No," Xander and Spike said at the same time.

"Fine, I'll do this in the hall." He made a show of fidgeting and eased a foot towards the doorway. It bumped against an invisible barrier.

Spike's smirk became more pronounced. "That's right, Peaches. I'm on this side and you're on that side. Tell your story and move along, you're only getting out of an arse-kicking because you showed up five minutes later than you could have."

Angel shrugged and shoved away the mental pictures. "I am here to apologize. I didn't realize what you two were up to, I thought you were part of a problem I'm having in LA. I'm sorry I nearly messed it up for you, and I hope it doesn't cause you problems in the future."

Spike found his voice first. "Damn right you nearly screwed everything up! We're two weeks from convincing those shitheads that Sunnyhell's not worth the grief of dealing with, and the great avenger comes tromping in on great bat feet to stick his nose in where it doesn't belong."

Xander stuck a hand over Spike's mouth. "Thank you," he said to Angel. "Good-bye."

Angel nodded and turned to leave. Maybe he was getting off lightly after all.

Or not.

"Oi, you call that an apology?" Spike had gotten free. "I want groveling! I never got away with anything like that piss poor apology in the old days."

Slowly, Angel turned. "Spike, that was a long, bad time ago--"

"It was barely four years ago," Spike snarled. "I can break it down into months, weeks, and days if you want."

Xander put a hand on Spike's shoulder. Angel closed his eyes. "You don't have to," he said softly. "I know."

"You know." Spike strode out into the hall. "Then don't you think I deserve a better apology?"

Angel opened his eyes to glare at Spike. "I made you do things no one should have to. No way in hell am I going to do them. Besides, I already apologized."

"You made me do worse just for taking a cigar without permission, I'm not (continued...)