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.
Last of the Ff posting:
She listened, keeping her face completely smooth and impassive. In fact, it was an odd story; she wondered if this child knew just how odd a story it was.
When he had finished, she ventured a question. "What made you assume it was traders in black market blood supplies? Rather than, say, someone playing silly beggars and pretending they were Dracula? You know, someone nice and high?"
"There were eleven dead people," he told her flatly. "Eleven. Unless there's a whole lot of people getting that high and doing that particular bit of assing about, I don't see it." He abruptly tipped his still-foamy second pint to his lips, and drained it. "And you didn't see them, either. They were blue, sort of marble-looking. No blood left. So unless it really was Dracula, then someone wants all that blood, right? And what else could it be, except for money on the black market?"
Emma considered telling him about all the twisty things people had historically used blood for - Elisabeth Bathory came to mind - but decided against it. "Right. Supposing you're right - you want us to investigate?"
"That was the big idea," he told her wryly. "Because why else would I take my life in my hands and call a government ministry? Not that you aren't smashing, and all, but I didn't know that when I rang up, did I?"
She laughed out loud. "No, I suppose you didn't. All right. I'll have to clear this with my partner, but assuming it does get cleared, I'll head down at the weekend. Give me your address and number in Oxford."
She headed out into the street, turning over the information he'd given her. Had she looked over her shoulder, she might have surprised a rather odd look on Ethan Rayne's face.
Well, this is another try. Same topic motel/gun/note. Non-spoilery.
It’s not right. Even though they love each other, it isn’t right. Arriving separately. Checking in under assumed names. Sneaking up to the shabby room and screwing against the wall because heaven only knows who has been on the bed. Trying to let no parts of their bodies touch the moldy shower curtain as they wash up.
They’d been going there for weeks. Oh, he saw the way the guy behind the counter smirked every time he handed over the keys. He thought this was just some afternoon fuck, something secret and dirty. What did he know about it? This wasn’t just some casual affair. He would never do that.
Their cars were parked in the lot now. She’d already gone into the room. He knew they’d be there for a while. It was never just wham, bam, thank you ma’am. He cared about her. He was so good.
He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the gun. Nobody had ever asked about it, not even after what had happened with the girls. He read the note again, “Our love is pure.” He smiled.
Then, Andrew went up to the room to kill Anya.
The Phoenix died before I was able to post the last bit, so here's the rest of Gunn's Misadventures in Sunnydale:
Gunn caught the handgun Wes threw and looked at him, exasperated. “Discreet? Do I even know how to use this thing?” He shrugged at Wes’s level look. “Yeah, okay, I do, but I like my ax.”
“Keep the gun.”
“Fine.”
****
Two hours of listening to Lorne practice The Elephant Love Medley from Moulin Rouge in an empty bar with no bartender left Gunn feeling sick. Probably too many weird things going on around here that could get you killed for anyone with authority to come in and ask him to stop. Gunn had tried once and Lorne had offered him the mic. No way, man, not gonna happen.
A movement across the bar caught his eye. He looked up from scribbles he was making in the condensation on the table from the watered drink in front of him. “Alonna?” He could have sworn. She looked over her shoulder and smiled at him sadly.
“Lonna? Honey?” He felt a hand on his shoulder as he started to get up.
“Hey, I have something for you.”
Gunn looked around, annoyance clear on his face. “What? Andrew? I gotta go.”
Andrew smirked at the girl in the shadows by the fire exit. “Pretty. Someone you know?”
“My dead sister.”
“Oh,” Andrew nodded his head wisely. “The First.”
“What?” Gunn slung Andrew’s hand away from him and slipped away from his blocking body, heading for the door in swift strides.
“It’s just the First Evil.” Andrew’s clear but slightly nasal voice carried over the song and Gunn whipped his head back around.
“The first?”
“The First Evil. If she’s dead, that’s the First Evil. It keeps doing that. It got me a couple of times, and, you know, I was evil. I should know.” Andrew looked smugly self-satisfied for a moment and then shook his head, looking down. “I was evil. But, I’m redeemed now. I’m helping.”
Gunn looked back at the girl just in time to see her grin, just like that last smile he saw on her face before she tried to vamp him, the one that wasn’t really her, and then turn to dust.
He turned back to the table and sat down heavily, running a hand over his face.
“Sorry.”
“What?” Gunn shrugged. “Not like it’s the first time evil ever tried to mess with me.”
“I have a message.”
Gunn didn’t respond, so Andrew pulled a chair out and sat on the edge. “You know, without the ax, and, you know, no special robes or anything, you remind me more of Blade.”
Gunn looked up, disbelieving.
“Blade? Not the movie guy. I’m not talking Mister cut with the big teeth and gums. I mean the real Blade.” Gunn sat, trying to take this in. “The comic book? He fights vampires because he hates them so much. Of course, he is one too, well, sort of.”
Realizing this isn’t helping, Andrew stops and thinks for a moment. “No, I got it. Bishop! Bishop, Issue 283 of the X-Men, where he comes back from an alternate timeline, having beaten Apocalypse, and he’s bald. He really kicks ass. The rest of the X-Men weren’t sure they liked him at first, you know, because he kicked ass and he was so much more violent than they were.” Andrew tilted his head reflectively. “Okay, and he’s kind of crazy too.” He looks up at Gunn hopefully. “Also, his sister was killed, Shard.” He looked at Gunn’s face and stopped.
Gunn turned pointedly away and looked at Lorne again. Verse 43, or maybe just the second verse for the 22nd time, who knows by now. There was no following this crazy song.
Andrew muttered and twitched.
“What?”
“I have a message. It’s important.”
“Fine.” Gunn looked at him expectantly. “What’s the message?”
“Oh, I didn’t read it. It’s here.” Andrew attempted to pass a folded piece of paper under the table but jammed his hand on the leg. “Ow. Here.” He slid it across the top, right through the water spill.
……Sunset…. Motel, room 233….. she….. dies.
“You couldn’t have just handed this to me?” Gunn tried to read the rest, but water, and probably Andrew’s sweaty palms, had made the pencil fade to indecipherability.
“I was trying not to call attention to it!” Andrew huffed. “An old high school friend gave it to me.” He smiled, perky. “You know, she used to live in L.A. I don’t know when she got back. She said it was from a friend who knew how to stop this thing.” He lowered his voice and looked around. “You know, the First.”
“Right. The first, stopping because of someone dying in a motel room? Sounds to me like that’s already happened.”
“Oh, yeah, it did, one of the potentials, and then she pretended to be her. I mean,” He paused at Gunn’s confused look. “I mean the First pretended to be the potential after she died. Eve. The potential.”
“Never mind. I’ll go show this to the guys and see what they have to say.”
*****
