Thanks!

says she who couldn't resist the fan/goth cliche of a black background

Yes, this I was worried about.

Is it better to post it in Twi's journal with a spoiler warning, or spoiler font, or should I post it in my own with the cut, and then link it to Twi's?

If you feel more comfortable, post it in your LJ behind the cut and link to it, but if you post it as-is, no spoiler warning in Twi's LJ, it should be fine.

(I used no spoiler warning in the post in the comments, and I mentioned Faith being in Sunnydale. It's vague enough to be okay.)

But if you post it in your LJ, be sure to use the cut, because of those pesky UnAmericans.

Deb, [link] is working for me now.

My shot at the drabble: Guidelines: Two hundred words, motel, gun, note, M/F (rated PG)

He turns it over again in his hands. Try as he might, he can't make it menacing. It's not cold. His hands keep it warm. He hasn't put it down since it fired. It's not heavy, not to hands that fence foil, epee, and saber.
He balances it, weighing, transferring, weighing again.
The gun in his father's hand had not had its own menace, but everything Lionel touched was tainted. Menace that stayed long after he walked away. No, Lionel never walked away. He could leave a room, but he never walked away.
There was a Heisenbergian uncertainty principle that hovered around Lionel. Sometimes Lex knew his motivation. Sometimes he could predict his action. Knowing both seemed impossible.
It didn't matter, in that moment, why Lionel was pointing the gun at Clark. Lex knew he would fire.
Was it filial devotion that had stuttered Lex's finger on his trigger? Or simple fear? No matter. Lionel's gun had fired first, at point blank range. Lex's aim had been as sure.
He crumples the note unfinished into his pocket and stares at the motel room door. Enough hiding.
He is a Luthor. The Luthor. No questions, no explanations.
And no more Smallville.

 **********

And now to read the preceding ones.

Gah. I'm reading all the drabbles, and they make sense (not to mention having emotional impact). Does mine make sense? Is it apparent that he now knows Clark is special, and this has pushed him away, over the line?

Or do I need to rework?

I think it makes sense to me.

And I love

There was a Heisenbergian uncertainty principle that hovered around Lionel. Sometimes Lex knew his motivation. Sometimes he could predict his action. Knowing both seemed impossible.

Rebecca, uh-oh. I'm getting the "Netscape is unable to locate..." message.

Not good. Because Netscape's all I've got. And I've promised (and besides I want to) read "Girl One". "Girl Two", and "Faith By Nights", and I. Can't. Get. There.

Damn.

Yep, I'm being a slavish follower of trends, my attempt at 200 words (brevity! Hard!) with a motel, a note, and a gun.

The note said Xander knew about the danger posed by Buffy and Angel and would be waiting in a motel in Oxnard.

Wes knew the risk, taking a prophecy's word over that of his friends. Maybe he was being played again: as a reliable source, Xander made as little sense as a plastic hamburger loa. But he knew Xander--or at least his reputation. Loyal, dedicated, the one who would act when the signs read failure.

So much like Wesley had wanted to be at that age. How had a young man with no advantages but courage and heart done so effortlessly what Wes, with his training and experience, had struggled to do?

Xander had saved the world. Wesley had betrayed everyone who depended on him. Wesley found himself reluctant to look Xander in the eye.

The door swung open on the knock. Xander, haggard and sleepless, didn't blink at the gun tucked in Wes' belt.

"You believe me," he said.

"Yes."

A weight fell from Xander's shoulders. "Thank god," he whispered. "Can we stop them?"

"Buffy and Angel? One pulled from heaven, the other from hell, where both should have stayed? I don't know. But we have to try."

Because Netscape's all I've got.

Ask Nick (? husband's name?) about the latest version of Mozilla.

Two hundred words exactly? Hmmm.

---

The note read, simply, "Don't follow me."

He sat on the edge of an impersonal bed in a featureless room. He had chased her from town to town, a series of cheap motels, reeking of cheap perfume and abandoned dreams. The beds had all been neatly made; no impression of her body still lingered there. All he wanted was to heal her wounds, to see what the beast had done to her, to make her whole again. Room after room, the scent of Lilah tickled him like a distant pheromone. "Don't follow me."

He looked at the note. He thought of the Glock in its discreet holster. He wondered what else was following her, to make her so determined to not be found.

He found four quarters in his jacket pocket, and pushed them into the slot beside the bed. The Magic Fingers came to life, shaking the bed like a carny ride. When he caught up to her, nursed her to health, he would take her and they would shake their bed harder and faster than this.

When he left, he added the note to all the others, a talisman of denial, a thread to chase. Don't Follow Me.