Midori-chan.

Am I the only one that read this as 'Midochlorian'? Yes? Excellent. Carry on.

squeals with delight

Darla! Giles! Ethan!

ETHAN!!!

Excuse me.

Elena, stop playing with the free samples so you can keep your fanverses separate.

Heck, I was expecting people to make jokes about fruit-flavored liqueurs.

connie, are you implying that I am a fan of PM and AoTC? You impugn my honour at your own risk, sirrah. Must I demand satisfaction?

sigh of satisfaction

More, please?

Elena, thank you so much for your comments. It's good to know that a fic works the way in which it's intended. I'm especially relieved to hear that I got Xander's character right. If I have time, I'll post the thing to the lists this evening.

Deb, I love the idea of Darla wandering through Florence in the evening. 'Tis yummy and sensual.

connie, I look forward to seeing more of Ethan and Giles. I especially liked Ethan's reaction to the news of Annabelle's death.

Anne, do you have other not-slashed Xander? And, if you do, can you direct me to where I could read it?

You impugn my honour at your own risk, sirrah. Must I demand satisfaction?

Um, will you be satisfied with more Ethan and Giles as they relate their adventures? And possibly some V!Giles when I get home?

Nay, I would ne'er impugn the honor of one so noble, so stalwart, so steadfast in pursuing their chosen goal of helping the weary sufferers find relief.

Anne, do you have other not-slashed Xander? And, if you do, can you direct me to where I could read it?

Alas, I only have two Jossverse stories to my credit. Most of my stuff is in anime fandoms. I do have a companion piece to the Xander one in the works, however.

more.

--

The voice, from just behind her right shoulder, is hoarse and a bit too knowing. She turns her head.

The man at her side is dusky, black-haired and black-eyed. He looks like an Etruscan effigy come to life, a golem, an animation. She lets her eyes imprint him, and decides she likes what she sees.

"Gorgeous," she drawls, and smiles. He smiles back, and the blood in her belly seems to thicken, coagulate. He's quintessentially Italian, muscled yet lean, curly hair and the profile of a gladiator. "What's your name?"

"Ah, you are an American. My name - does it matter?" He jumps from Italian to English without missing a beat. "If you need to know, tell me your name first."

"No, I don't think I'll do that." She reaches out one slender hand and rests it against his belly. Like many Italian men, he's of average height, and they're eye to eye as she slips the hand under his shirt, the tip of her index finger resting in the shallow depression of his navel. "It probably doesn't matter, but a girl has her pride. You're very pretty, but you have bad manners. I asked you first."

"Lorenzo." His voice has changed, becoming huskier. He grasps the exploring hand in one of his own, and slips it between his thighs. "If I am rude, I am sorry. Your name?"

"Darla." She leaves her fingers where Lorenzo has put them, and squeezes lightly, locking his eyes to her own. She sees them glaze, then intensify, as he expands under her touch. "Do you live here in Florence?"

The crowd ebbs and flows around them, the tide of the starlit piazza in human wavelets.

"No - I am a visitor here." His eyes have a deep purple tint to them, the significator of desire, the olive oil patina of black enhanced with the colour of wine. He's outgrown her hand, and her own knees are trembling. "In the morning, I leave Florence."

That's what you think. "I have a villa, in the hills. It's only about twenty kilometres from here." She hesitates, and as she does so, he reaches out and tweaks her right nipple, lightly. Words spill from her in a rush. "Do you have a car? We could go there now."