Ah, I'm not on the machine with my email. (Technically, I'm in bed, in fact.)

Mother's Day is my traditionally crabby day, though today was much better than last year.

I had to garden, for reasons I'm now too tired from gardening to explain.

Thanks, Perkins. Mine generally come easily, but I would have been more comfortable if this one had taken more than three minutes, considering the way I feel tonight, and the subject matter.

But I did get to play with two angelic horses today: Jake and Thomas, one Belgian and one Percheron, each slightly over 18 hands. Both bought from Amish farms, and unused to attention from people as they now get. They were purest loves, and I whispered Thomas, a Siamese cat of a horse, for about five solid minutes, and he danced in place for me and washed my forehead. They were charmers, both of them.

Plei, email replied to yours. No rush.

Sounds like a great day Deb. I love Percherons.

Mine was pretty good. I decided not to go to work, and to stay home and clean instead, so I feel like I actually accomplished something for a change, then I went to dinner with some Laistas, and watched Bend it like Beckham with Kat.

They were showing "BiLB" at the theatre in St. Helena today, and it reminds me, I must get on DVD. Want to see it something fierce.

I need to go take my nighttime meds, which are going to knock me out, which is a good thing. I'm hosting writers group tomorrow and Buffy Tuesday and I came home and prepped tomatoes and sausage and whatnot for lasagne for both. That's because I'm frellin' insane.

Saying bestest dreams to all, and keeling over.

Night Deb

Elena-- yeah, Insane!Spike was disappointing. And annoying.

Connie-- more, please! (And 'Brother Maynard'? What's that, metatextual snark?)

deb-- lovely drabble. As has been said, painful in the best way.

Plei, I liked your drabble, too. Nice example of what can be done with it.

deb - some things write themselves because the feeling is already there, inside you. That was simply beautiful.

Buffy shrugged a little and gave her an enigmatic smile. "There's a first time for everything, Faith."

Whee! Plei.

Connie-- more, please! (And 'Brother Maynard'? What's that, metatextual snark?)

I actually debated that for a few minutes, but figured anyone who recognized the name wouldn't be too thrown by it. But there will be no Holy Hand Grenades, promise.

edit: though there may be Xander-Spike snark.

anyone who recognized the name wouldn't be too thrown by it.

Probably true. I think it'll only throw the people who, like me, *half* recognise it and have to go and look it up to be sure.

there will be no Holy Hand Grenades, promise.

Oh, shame! (What about the Castle Arrrgghhh... ?)

there may be Xander-Spike snark.

Yay! Well, that's alright then. Xander-Spike snark. Heaven exists.

For Plei. Beginning of, only:

A LOAF OF NEW BREAD

She was in the staff kitchen, holding a bottle of blood for Angel, when the blonde walked in.

He came in the Hyperion's front door in a way that made her think of her boss; there was something quiet, assured, in his entrance. It was more than the leather coat, or the biker boots, or the bleached white hair. Words popped into Fred's mind, so unusual for her that she blinked like a fool, holding the Tupperware container full of pig's blood: elegantly feral.

"Hullo, love." He stood in the centre of the lobby, looking around as if he owned the place. Mental inventory taken, he turned his attention to her. She saw the appreciation in his eyes, purely masculine and acquisitive, as he added her to the list of the hotel's amenities: her long slender legs, her low-slung jeans, her faded sweater. Somewhere under the sweater, a slow blushing heat bloomed and settled.

"Can I help you?" Her voice squeaked, and she swallowed hard, momentarily furious with herself. She was no schoolgirl, and she was damned well going to outgrow sounding like one.

"Even money you can. You've got to be Fred, right?" He looked at the Tupperware jug full of blood. "For me? Nice girl. Willow must have rung up and told you I was coming."

His movement was a blur. One moment she was eyeing him from ten feet away, the next he had nipped the jug from her hand and taken a good healthy swig. She jumped back, a reflex action she'd honed on Pylea and in daily dealings with -

"You're Spike." It had suddenly clicked in who this gorgeous leggy man must be. Speed, silence, feral grace and a taste for AB negative? With the realisation, Fred got herself under some sort of control, and managed to grin at him. "Oh, sorry, yes I'm Fred and yes Willow called down to say you were coming but no, that wasn't for you. Actually, that was Angel's bedtime snack you just drank, but no problem; there's a few gallons in the fridge." She held out a hand. "Welcome to Angel Investigations."