I believe Huw is pronounced Hugh, I think it's Welsh. To be honest, I pulled it from a book on my bookshelf.

edit: I've got lots of ideas depending on what happens in the series. Ethan Coombes, baby Watcher, for instance.

Sunday 100 again, theme reflections.

Glass

It's just a piece of silvered glass, its edges beveled and tucked into a seventy year old wooden frame. If he hit it hard enough, it would shatter, breaking into a thousand jagged fragments.

Just glass, polished and treated. When he showers, it fogs up. Water splashing up from from the sink leaves small dots of hard water white. Fingers mark it with oily prints whenever he sends Wes or Gunn or Cordy up to collect aspirin or bandages or iodine or whatever else they need after a fight.

Just glass, its surface reflecting everything around it, everything but him.

Nice, Plei. Nice, Fay. (and I'll read more closely later)

Connie, very nice - both 'Left Side' and the Ethan one (except you have him say about the books 'there as much yours as mine' and it should be they're, of course).

I will comment more extensively later.

I will also post my flash fic-a-thon story in the morning.

Trying to think of a title for this drabble ...

That red! She'd already removed and reapplied the lipstick too many times. It was supposed to scream. She smiled, and then grimaced at herself. If she looked half as scary to the rest of the world as she did to herself, then this plan just might work.

If.

Once, just once, after looking around the empty bathroom, did she stand with her shoulders pushed back, cleavage unhidden, and run her hands slowly down the smooth leather, trying to imagine what it would feel like to be powerful enough, dark enough, to wear this outfit, instead of being worn by it.

Gah!

ita, no title, but GAH!

New Sunday 100. Someone hook me up?

Here, Deb.

And here's my next:

He's standing there, between the dresser and the bed, and she gives him that "Don't make me kill you," stare she throws around so carelessly these days. Like he'd wander into her bedroom in the middle of the night without a right good reason. Well not wake her without one anyway.

"Please. Like I give a bloody damn."

And he turns, making sure he seems just grudging enough. There's a mirror on the dresser, he knows (he knows her room very well, these days), and she doesn't realise that without a reflection, he has no problem watching her through himself.


Invisible

It's been raining in Los Angeles, a noisy winter rain: thin, streaming, depressing. It drums on the Hyperion's roof; more importantly, it streams down into the sewage outtake tunnels.

He kneels down, touching the water. There's no light, but it doesn't matter; he knows what he would see even if the heavens poured down gold and morning and he didn't die, and that's nothing. Of the many things he's lost, this, his own image, is one of the losses that bothers him in the deep places.

He swirls dirty water with one fingertip, and reflects on how lucky Connor is.

mine:

She held a blouse up to her chin. It didn't fit, and then, damn, pizza sauce, but, who cared, really? "Maybe she'll think it's blood."

She tried the black lace. She would *so* rock in this. She'd rule the Bronze. She wouldn't slay vampires, or demons, or fuck monsters; she'd dance and get all the attention.

She admired the black lace, but, though she looked at her own face floating above it, she didn't really see her reflection. After all, what was there to see? She'd never slay vampires or demons or fuck monsters. Maybe, she shrugged, she could dance.

Nice, guys.