The Trio is back.http://archiveofourown.org/works/367510/chapters/1308741

Dawn ends up in trouble. [link]

It must be Tuesday.

I reckon.

So there's a remix challenge going at a Mentalist fansite. I signed up, and drew the name of an author I like and respect. I then reread a dozen or more of her fics to figure out which to do. Started writing at my usual fast clip of about 200 words per day. Got well into the meat of the story.

Then I accidentally deleted it.

And in the process of trying to retrieve it from my backup file, accidentally deleted that too.

headdesk headdesk headdesk

Thankfully it takes me a lot less time to remember 400 words than it takes me to compose them in the first place.

And most of the stuff I can't remember was bits I can remember being dissatisfied with.

Seems a very harsh revision technique.

It certainly involved more swearing and panic than I ordinarily employ during revision. Swearing and panic are generally reserved for first drafts.

In which Patrick Jane has a conversation with Death.

Title: Red Nightcap: The Nightminds Remix [link] Red Nightcap at FFN or [link] AO3

Author: MerriWyllow

Rating: T

Summary: Written for Paint-It-Red's Remix Challenge, based on tromana's "Nightminds". Crossover with Discworld. Spoilers for The Mentalist through 4.01. No particular Discworld spoilers.

"That was Malibu for you. Other small towns in America, neighbors brought casseroles for a new widower. Here they brought Schedule IV Controlled Substances."

Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I own so very little here, just a handful of original characters. I don't even own the idea for the plot. I certainly do not own either Discworld or The Mentalist or their regular inhabitants. No harm to either universe is intended, and I certainly shall take away no profit other than my own satisfaction.

Original Story: Nightminds, by tromana [link] at FFN

Grr Argh. Waiting is the hardest part. There is a week at least before the final deadline for the remix challenge, most everyone who signed up for it have begun posting. But no one has posted a remix of any of my stories. The writer I wanted most has already posted something else. The two I feared might draw my name have also posted. And only one of theirs was completely unreadable.

That leaves one writer whose work is excellent but who does not ship my ship (if she drew my name she at least has a few stories which are not particularly shippy to choose from), and one whose work is ok - well, variable, really, but averages out to ok - and who does ship my way.

Yes, this really is a Buffy/ Savage Love crossover It's gen, though. (God, that could get scary, huh?)

On my way back from dinner, after speaking at UC-Sunnydale, I saw a blanket in the hallway. Figuring it was left there by a friendly stoner, or someone who shared my abysmal housekeeping skills, I didn't say anything. Until the blanket moved.

"You Savage?" the extremely pale figure under the blanket asked. It had been a while since I had been accosted by a stranger with an accent, and I have to say, I enjoyed it a little, but it would have been better if I could have seen what this bloke(Because, trust me, this was a bloke) looked like. He might have had the same thought, too, because he mumbled something about it being "dark enough now" and cast his bed covering aside. His face was scratched and I thought "Of course, he wants to talk to me. Don't they always?"

"Yes, I'm Dan Savage. How may I help you?" My mother would have been so proud. Grammatical, polite, and no risk of foreign cooties. I was so Midwestern I barely recognized myself.

He stood up, and despite his tough look, all-black-wardrobe and suspicious dark stains on his form-fitting black t-shirt, he looked embarrassed. You never know who the shy ones are. He looked at the blanket instead of at me and said "Sorry about that. I'd never been to this hotel before and got in the wrong sewer, and this hotel has too many sodding windows."

"I understand." I felt that I had finally boiled my job down to its simplest essence. People say crazy things to me and I just say I understand. Even when I don't.

"Just because I want my soul back doesn't mean I should catch on fire, right?"
"Look, dude," I said, at the same time I wondered which bro-tastic catalog that greeting wandered out of.
"Spike."

"Nice."
"I picked it myself."

"Look, Spike, there's nothing wrong with being flaming. Even if it displeases the other guys in your Billy Idol tribute band." And then I thought "Savage, you elitist dick," and felt like I should take a special interest, because I felt all that Catholic guilt combining away with the rubber chicken in the dining room, banding together to ensure me a sleepless night. Damn it.

"What is it?" I asked gently. "Bondage gone wrong? Because it takes time, sometimes."
"Haven't you been listening? I've been out in the bloody jungle, doing these stupid...exercises, trying to get my soul back, and then I find out that the prophecy I'd been reading didn't say "wild" after all, but "Savage" and all I get from you is a lot of bollocks."

"You sound like my editor," I said, trying to make him smile.

"Are you very stoned?"

"Maybe later."