They were really very pale. Paler than Spike's own. He licked his lips, and then said, almost defiantly, like it meant something, like he thought he was the Slayer,

I like that part.

with so many people here hoping it would end

I think you have us confused with someone else. Me, at least.

They were really very pale. Paler than Spike's own. He licked his lips, and then said, almost defiantly, like it meant something, like he thought he was the Slayer,

That was my favorite.

I liked the garbage sailboats and the description of the rain.

connie, forgot to say 'Giles has minions?' might be the funniest fucking thing I've read all year.

Jossed to hell, but I don't care. Set over the summer.

Maybe it's all because of the beating my noggin took when she walked in the door. Not that she hit me on the head or anything like that, in spite of the amount of head-hitting that goes on in this place. I just hit it on the counter when I heard her footsteps in the lobby. Maybe I should explain that I was under the counter at the time, which makes sense if you think about it. I mean, glowing white aura or no, Cordelia's filing system never did improve, and I figured maybe she'd stashed some relevant pieces of paper there along with the emergency nail files and a couple pieces of gum.

I was prodding the edge of something (it turned out to be a receipt for a pair of shoes--charged to the business account) with one of those nail files when I heard the aforementioned footsteps. They were too light to be Charles, and besides, he always announces he's back. I thought maybe it was Cordy, and I didn't really want her to catch me under her desk sneaking through her hidden stuff so I beat a hasty retreat. I kind of misjudged the clearance between the bottom of the desk and the top of my head.

When they talk about seeing stars, it's a bit of an understatement. Everything went a little supernova before it faded to a couple of big hurkin' Pylean suns.

It wasn't Cordelia standing in the lobby. It wasn't anyone I could remember seeing, and I'm pretty good with faces, and besides, there's no way anyone could see her and not have her burned his or her retinas. She was standing there in a tight tank top and a baggy pair of pants, holding a big old duffel bag and looking around like she'd just gotten back from some hell dimension and couldn't quite believe she'd escaped it. Which is a pretty common look around here, now that I think of it.

"Angel Investigations! We help the helpless, how can I help you?" I chirped. After all, she wasn't anyone I knew, and she was in our lobby. Therefore, it made sense that she was a client.

"Where's Angel?" Her voice was deep, kind of gruff, and not really what a person would call patient, and from the sounds of things, I was wrong about the whole client assumption.

"He's, well, he's...." she cocked an eyebrow and I gave up on obfuscation. "Well, it's kind of funny you should ask. We're not sure."

"What, he went out for milk and didn't come back?"

"Something like that, yeah."

"Shit. Should have known something was up when he missed his semi-annual visit to the big house. Where's Wes?" She was starting to look a little panicky.

"We don't really say that name around her anymore. He's kind of persona non grata."

"Well, at least that's one awkward social encounter I'll be avoiding. Cordelia?"

"Oh, she's been AWOL for as long as Angel. They kind of vanished at the same time."

She dropped her bag and stared at me for a minute before responding. "Let me get this straight: Angel's missing, Wesley's fucked up again--big shock there--and Cordelia's gone too? Who's running the shop?"

"That'd be me. Well, me and Charles. Oh, and Connor, but he's run off somewhere again."

"So who the hell are you?" She seemed more tired than hostile.

"Oh! Sorry, I must have been kind of distracted. I'm Fred. Can I help you?"

"I'm Faith. I was kind of hoping Angel would have a job for me. He's not here, but sounds like you're short staffed at the moment. How 'bout it?"

"Well, we don't really have any clients, but hey, this place being all empty and echo-y is kind of crazy making, and seeing as it's been three weeks with no word from Angel or Cordelia, we could probably use a little help. What is it exactly that you do?"

"I'm a Slayer. I also know my way around the laundry room and make a killer license plate, but I just don't see those last two as career paths."

I must have looked kind of clueless, because she filled me in pretty quickly. "I'm fresh out of jail. Turns out there were some technicalities that weren't handled quite right. Like my whole confession. Some bleeding heart with an axe to grind took on the system, so here I am."

She smiled a little. I think I was expecting something mean and feral, with that whole prison thing, something like a stray dog grinning a warning. What I got was kind of rusty, but sweet.

"We have a bunch of rooms, although some of them are still a little damaged from the earthquake. You can take your pick."

The rusty smile turned into a big old grin. "Got any with a bathtub?"

I showed her up to a suite with a huge tub. "Gimme a sec, I'll get you some soap and towels."

There was still some Mister Bubble with Connor's baby things, so I put it on top of the stack of towels next to the bars of Ivory. "Here you go," I told her as I handed off the bundle. "I'll be down in the lobby if you need anything."

After a couple of hours, I started to get a little worried. I mean, call me paranoid and all, but with everybody and his uncle disappearing around here, it never hurts to check and make sure a body is where you put him or her last. I've suggested to Charles that we might want to look into microchips with some sort of GPS--it'd be easy enough to put together--but he's not too keen on the idea. Says it's a little too "X-Files" for him.

I guess I'd forgotten just how good a bath feels when you haven't had one in a few years. I knocked on the door, waited a sec, then just walked in when I didn't hear anything from the room.

"Faith? Are you okay in there?" I called out.

The sound of water splashing reassured me, but not as much as the sound of her voice. "Yeah, five-by-five. Hey--while you're here, could you bring me a towel? I left them on the bed."

She was sprawled in the tub, one leg up against the tile surround, and covered in bubbles. Even her hair, which was piled up all wet and dark and bubbly and kind of Bride of Frankenstein-y. I couldn't look away; my first sexual dream may have been about the Mouse King, but the second was all about Elsa Lancaster.

"Here's your towel... sorry to bug ya." I held it out and she stood up, not bothering to rinse the bubbles. It was kind of like the Botticelli Birth of Venus, only dark and without the shell or the wind or the roses. And with me and a towel instead of the nymph with the cloak.

I had a feeling that I wasn't going to be dreaming about the Mouse King or Elsa next time I had a chance to get some shut-eye.

"So, you hungry?" I asked. When in doubt, food's good, and Charles wasn't due back for another few hours. Besides which, prison food's the butt of enough jokes that I figured there had to be a grain of truth to them.

"I'm starved." She finished toweling off and pulled on her clothes. "What have you got?"

"Well, nothing here really, but there's a great taco stand just down the street, that is, if you like tacos, and who doesn't like tacos? I mean, I guess some people probably don't like tacos, but--"

"Tacos are cool. Got anything to drink with 'em?"

In hindsight, which, as everyone knows, is always 20/20, I probably should have said "no" or "just water" or "I could pick up some root beer while I get the food", but like I said, I'd hit my head pretty hard when she walked in, so I thought tequila'd be a good idea. And anyone can tell you that tequila's pretty much never a good idea, especially if you're having the kinda thoughts you really should scrub right out of your brain before you're tempted to act on them in spite of having a sweet, wonderful, loving boyfriend who happens to be gone for the night, but I made the suggestion before watching her eat.

Again in hindsight, maybe I should have suggested some sort of innocuous food, like burgers or cous-cous.

"You were right," she said from around a mouthful of taco. "These are damn good." The tip of her tongue darted out to catch some sauce before it could escape, and I took another hasty shot of Cuervo as she polished off the last bites. "Gotta admit, though, they're kinda messy."

I'm still writing, just on other stuff. Stuff that in theory I could get paid for, at least. Which sort of unfairly brings way too much attention to it, I think at times.

There are a bunch of proposals for shorts for a comic book anthology that I am prepping, and a short game related piece. Still it has not been singing lately, just the sort of focused work that needs to get done.

Hrm, I forget, was this one every finished Plei?

Hrm, I forget, was this one every finished Plei?

Nope. I dig it up whenever I'm working on something so depressing I feel like sticking my head in an oven.

It should be finished soon. I've written about 300 words in the last hour.