I'll send what I've got on 5.

More. I haven't edited this at all, so forgibe errors except to correct the spelling of "forgive"):

"Rude Rupert, that's what you are." The reference to KORWIGH - "knickers off ready when I get home" - had me reluctantly grinning. But something was setting off my internal alarm system. What in hell was wrong? Every nerve ending I had was suddenly beating a war drum, and I couldn't imagine why. "Slap and tickle sounds lovely, ta."

The feeling of something off somewhere, something holding its breath and waiting to happen, stayed with me through the night. We had indeed gone back to the new shop in the Woodstock Road, me with all senses sparked and sensitive. Rupert was right, there was no sign of Richard Giles; still, I couldn't relax. Rupert showed me his guitar - he'd been saving for a Martin for three solid years and finally got the money to buy one. We played records, louder than he could have had Richard been there: Jimi Hendrix, Dave Edmunds, The Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd.

Rupert also pulled out a pipe and a small bit of hash - procured, he told me, by his friend Ethan. We opened the back door and stood in the doorway, half indoors and half out, passing the pipe back and forth, holding the acrid smoke in our lungs, trying not to cough, getting more relaxed with every moment and vaguely hoping the telltale smell might not linger indoors and give Rupert away. Behind us, tinny and light, Pink Floyd's UmmaGumma spun on, freezing itself as this moment in time imprinted indelibly on my memory like a distant dancing scent or a vagrant warmth.

I took a pull at the last of the hash. Words, a perfect acoustic guitar, and was that birdsong I was hearing?

Icy wind of night, be gone, this is not your domain
In the sky a bird was heard to cry
Misty morning whisperings and gentle stirring sounds
Belied a deathly silence that lay all around

Something moved in me, a kind of pain. Perhaps it was regret, that rarely-tasted indulgence, something I never allowed myself, regret for something I couldn't identify beyoind my own awareness that I'd had none of whatever it was. It might have been sorrow, the genuine article in all its brutal simplicity, for all the youth and the normalcy I'd been denied? Maybe it was no more than the hashish opening a few barred windows for me to climb into or out of, or the knowledge that, come Sunday, I would officially leave whatever pitiful bit of childhood I'd ever had behind me?

Hear the lark and harken to the barking of the dog fox gone to ground
See the splashing of the kingfisher flashing to the water
And a river of green is sliding unseen beneath the trees
Laughing as it passes through the endless summer making for the sea

Warmth, and love, and simple being - surely, it was far better to rejoice, to revel, in what I'd been given, than to regret the lack of that which I had not? These unshed tears, clotting at the base of my throat and pressing against my cheekbones from behind like a small insistent hand knocking on the wall - they were false, they were nonsense, I was not going to cry, and certainly not in front of Rupert....

In the lazy water meadow I lay me down
All around me, golden sunflakes settle on the ground
Basking in the sunshine of a bygone afternoon
Bringing sounds of yesterday into this city room

Hear the lark and....

I looked down at my feet, frantically wrestling back the need to look at my life instead. Starlight touched them, the new shoes; I remembered trying on pair after pair, unsatisfied with everything, until these, off the back shelf in a tiny store at World's End, where Chelsea becomes Fulham, had slid onto my tired feet like Cinderella's slipper.

Dappled with starlight, and vomit, and partially digested blood. Not fixable. Not recoverable. They were fit for nothing better than the dustbin.

Hear the lark and....

I began to weep. Rupert had his arms around me, my tears splashing and pooling like salt water in the well of his collarbones. I was incoherent, and therefore silent; there were no words in me, not for this huge looming sense of loss. Rupert, it seemed, needed none.

"You've missed nothing." He spoke softly, with complete certainty, into my throat. The pulse of my jugular took his words, his certainty, and carried these things through my body, warming me. "I've had all that and I'm telling you, beloved, you've missed nothing. You only think you have. You can have it, some of it, anytime you like. And I'm here. Remember that. I'm always here."

We made love in the doorway, half under lamplight, half under starlight. For a while, at least, the foreboding that had settled on me in the Wolvercote churchyard sank to an intensity level no greater than that of a flickering candle. But although it sank, that candle, dark and disturbing, never entirely went out.

Not really "more" so much as "revision." Here's the donut thing again, now with shiny new title. Only three hundred posts later...

Title: Jimmy Olsen

one.

Xander slammed his book shut, got up from the table, and started to pace. Then he started humming "Mr. Roboto." And then he unconsciously started to do interpretive dance, at which point Giles simply had to comment.

"Xander! For god's sake, either get back to your book or get out of the library! I can't concentrate with you...wiggling like that, and I absolutely must figure out what this demon is before Buffy returns from patrol."

Xander threw himself into a chair. "Yeah, but the book is so heavy. And thick. And dense. Which is really kind of the meaning of heavy and thick. And this is not prose at all. I don't know what--" he looked at the spine "--Dosselhoff was thinking, but he's really not appealing to his audience at all."

Giles glared. He took off his glasses, wiping them uselessly with his shirt, before putting them back on. When he was done with the ritual glasses-cleaning, he took out his wallet and grabbed a ten-dollar bill. "Go do something." He paused. "Donuts. Buy donuts."

Xander shot up from his chair, swiping the money and heading for the door. "Don't forget the jellies!" Giles called after him, delving back into his book.

two.

Around the time they started researching Angelus--not just the "this is what he was and when he lived" synopsis, more along the lines of the research that required graphs, charts, bullet points, and a PhD in Demonology to comprehend--Xander started to get antsy.

It wasn't the normal nervous energy he seemed to radiate. More like a thrumming rhythm that started with his heartbeat and spread throughout his body until his fingers drummed the staccato on the table and his leg was bouncing up and down.

Without looking up from their texts, Willow and Giles pointed at the checkout desk, where the library-fine money was kept. It had unofficially been dubbed "donut donation fund," and the coffers were kept surprisingly full by students who either forgot they had books out or who were seemingly scared of the library (or its most active patrons) and made as few trips into the sanctum as possible.

Xander grabbed a couple of dollars and announced, "I'm getting sustenance. Any special requests?"

"Blackberry."

"Scone, any flavor."

"Carla said she wasn't making scones this week," Xander said.

There was an audible sigh and movements toward glasses-cleaning. "Fine. Bavarian crème."

Xander nodded and headed out the door at an almost-run, checking the stake in his back pocket.

three.

Xander walked into the library carrying a familiar pink box. "Celebratory donuts! Get 'em while they're here."

Oz moved from the explosive he was wiring and opened the box. "Little pre-emptive," he said, grabbing a strawberry Danish.

"Yeah, Xand, we haven't won yet. But thanks for the vote of confidence," Buffy said as she claimed an eclair.

"Hey, what can I say--donuts always ensure victory," Xander mused, moving the box to the center of the table. There was looming behind him. Xander figured it was Angel.

"Did you get a bearclaw?" Yeah, it was Angel.

"No, they were all out. Try a muffin. I hear they're great for your fiber intake," Xander said with thinly-veiled sarcasm.

Angel gave a low-watt glare and grabbed a jelly instead.

Giles looked at Xander expectantly, and Xander sighed, rooting around in the box before coming up with a raspberry jelly. He handed it to Giles, who had a satisfied look on his face. Willow was the last to meander over, swiping a plain one while reading her book. She gave Xander a pat on the shoulder, before going to sit next to Oz.

There were a couple left, and Xander poked at them before choosing one at random. He sat down and leaned back in his chair, munching on what turned out to be white creme. He surveyed the sight of the Scoobies at rest for a moment, a pause in their desperate attempt to save the world. Again.

Yup, Xander thought. We prepare for battle with sugared pastry. The military should learn tricks from us.

four.

Xander worked in the donut shop work a week before Carla fired him sweetly, handing him a box of donuts for free and telling him she only wanted to see him as a customer from now on. Go give your friends a treat, she said.

The problem was, he hadn't seen his friends for days.

five.

Xander got a donut on the way to work every morning. He'd get a jelly and a cup of coffee, buy the paper that he never read just outside, and would get to work about five minutes early. They'd close up shop after a long, hard day's work around five thirty, and he'd have time to get washed up before the usual Scooby meetup at six.

When everyone got embroiled in the crazy bitch of the week, Xander would poke around the Magic Box, jumping back when Anya told him not to touch something because it would kill him/maim him/turn him purple. Then he'd meander back to the book table and open a volume at random, flipping the pages for quick looks at the pictures.

If Dawn was there, and she often was, Xander would sometimes take her along on a donut run and she'd pick out the best donuts out of all on display. He'd ruffle her hair, and they'd go back to the shop, and occasionally one of them would mumble "Thanks" from behind a mouthful of donut.

He told himself that what he was doing was important.

six.

It was pretty early, and the crew had been called down because of a water main busting loose on the site, so he had the day off. He figured he'd stop by the donut shop and grab a box, surprising Anya at work.

When he finally stepped out, he was inordinately pleased. They had chocolate crullers, with which he could surprise Anya. He started to hum, some random happy tune he must've heard on the radio this morning.

Then the electric guitar riffed in the background, and he started to do a little dance.

Xander couldn't dance. That didn't seem to stop him.

"Donuts!" he sang out, holding the box high above his head.

He proceeded to go into a fairly original adaptation of "I'm Gonna Wash That Man Right Outta My Hair" with the central theme being donuts. There was even a dance number.

Xander stopped in front of the Magic Shop door. He looked right, then left. Then up and down. Finally he shook his head and entered the building.

seven.

He gave Dawn rides to school every morning so she wouldn't have to ride the bus or walk, but he didn't have time to grab donuts before heading to work.

They didn't really do cram sessions that often now, and there was a new database online for demonology searches that speeded up their ident time in a major way.

More often than not, they'd all break to go home at the end of their day, when everything was finished, things were killed and disposed of.

The Summers' house was their meeting place more than anywhere, really, and there was always something stocked in the fridge, or Dawn would lobby for pizza.

Sometimes, though, Xander'd take his lunch break and eat donuts for an hour.

I like it, SA.

Yup, Xander thought. We prepare for battle with sugared pastry. The military should learn tricks from us.

t grin And putting that in the season three section. Neat.

(I'm not on monkey crack when I go "oh, yeah, one section for each season", am I?)

(I'm not on monkey crack when I go "oh, yeah, one section for each season", am I?)

Heh. Nope. That's the intent. I'm hoping I don't have to spell it out in the AN.

Nope, that was pretty clear; literally, a nice progression of the seasons, as parsed through pastry.

Um - can someone tell me if the bit I posted just now is too out to lunch?

I would, but I'm saving it to read once its finished. I do that. I'm bad at workshopping.

Hmmmm. Might be an idea to just save it until totally done before posting any more of it. I keep forgetting, it really is long.

No no no! Post as WIP!