I felt inspired by reading all the drabbles to break out of my lurker mode in here and write the gun/note/motel 200 word. I'd like to post it but it is spoilery for BtVS, because I'm a huge old spoiler ho. Can I post it here whitefonted or should I just sit on it? I feel really weird even thinking about posting something in fic with such excellent writers, but there you go. Now I'm gonna his post message real fast before I lose my nerve.

Please don't post a whitefonted NAFDA spoilery story here.

Though I'd love to read it ... later.

Post! Whitefont if spoilery, but post!

edit: Ummm, why not whitefonted?

Apparently, not everyone's browser supports whitefonting, I think.

I just checked, this is a NAFDA thread.

Ummm, why not whitefonted?

Because it's spoilery for BtVS, and that means it can only live in the spoiler thread until it comes to fruit.

Oh, is it future spoilery? Never mind then.

Moving from FF. I do get these threads confused (not spoilery at all; a giftie for Fay):

Hmmm. For fun, taking Fay's advice.

• ***

She stepped out of the Jag XKE, and into the dusty July sunlight of a London afternoon.

Every eye in every head present for the length of Marlborough Street watched her. She was accustomed to it; if her height and cheekbones hadn't turned heads, her black leather catsuit and four-inch laced granny boots would have done the trick. She herself wouldn't have given the stares a moment's thought. After all, it was London, it was 1966, and she was a scant twenty metres away from Carnaby Street.

She made for a small pub just south of where she'd parked. There were signs all over the shop, telling her she mustn't park there, threatening violators with dire consequences. No one would remove the Jag; no one would write her out a summons. The small blue government ministry sticker on the windscreen would see to that.

She glanced up at the lovingly restored pub sign. The Blood & Garter; this was the place, lashings of lolly spent on it, all tarted up like a dog's dinner for the tourist trade. How too bloody chichi for words. What peculiar names they gave pubs. Surely someone, maybe Conan Doyle, had written a short monograph on the subject? She really ought to ask Steed. It was precisely the sort of thing he cluttered up his brain with.

She became aware of one particular pair of eyes, watching her through the leaded glass of the pub's frontage. She walked inside, turned left, and headed for the eyes.

They belonged to a rather goodlooking child, dark-haired, cut features. Her first thought was that he'd likely spent far too much time in front of his looking glass, practising that sneer.

He stood up. At least he had some manners, she thought, and then realised, he was measuring himself against her height. She could see the mixture of outraged ego and lust as he realised he'd come up short.

"Don't worry, luv," she told him kindly. "It's not your willy at issue here. It's just my high heels." She watched him flush, and grinned, her cheekbones moving. "You're Ethan? Ethan Rayne?"

"Right." His voice squeaked a bit. He flushed again, but suddenly, as if seeing how silly his reactions were, got a grip on himself and grinned. It was a charming grin, and it changed his face, relaxing it, making him someone she could do business with. "And you're Emma Peel?"

more, from FF thread:

"Right. What are you drinking?" She caught the landlord's eye, gestured for two of the same, and turned back to Ethan. "You look puzzled. Is something wrong?"

"Well," he told her, "I was rather wondering where you'd possibly keep money in that gear you're wearing."

"Money? I don't need money. Jack here knows me. Hullo, Jack, long time no see. Ah, beer. Good thing we're still in licensing hours."

The landlord winked at her. "Ah, well, not like I'd refuse you a pint, Missus P."

"Sssh," she told him. "We don't want to corrupt Rosy-cheeked youth here, do we?"

The landlord, grinning sourly, headed back to the bar, leaving Ethan sputtering. Emma pulled a chair out, turned it back to front, and swung her legs over it.

"Let's get down to it," she suggested, and took a mouthful of beer. "The message you sent to the Ministry - you said something about black market trading in human blood?"

"Right." Ethan emptied the dresgs of his first pint. "See, me and two mates of mine, Rupert and Deirdre, we live in Oxford - my dad's a Fellow at Magdalene...."

The story that emerged was a strange one. Simply put, over the space of nine or ten weeks, Ethan Rayne and his two friends had discovered eleven bodies, their throats pierced, emptied of blood. Three of the weirdly mottled corpses had been derelicts, and their bodies had been left in the alleys in which they'd lived in life. The rest, however, had been strewn about Wolvercote Churchyard as carelessly as straw at a Guy Fawkes bonfire.

("What were you doing hanging about in a graveyard, anyway?" "We just were!")

Oh, now I wish I hadn't said anything. See, this is what I get for posting at 1:00 am. Yes, it is spoilery as in spoilery for things that haven't happened yet. I know enough from just lurking to know that things that have already aired are OK. So, I will not post it and go back to enjoying the wonderful fics here. Maybe I'll post it after it's not spoilery anymore.