Nice, Plei. Both of 'em.

Nice nice.

Boy, I love LJs for posting fic. More V!Giles. This no-internet at work is certainly helping my writing production

[link]

Very nice Plei, and Connie since I didn't get to read it before.

Nice, Plei. I like.

Good stuff, connie. MORE!

And... because it's late, and I have to do something to keep myself awake, a couple things. First, Flash Fic #2.

Heads or Tails
Buffy/Xander, NC-17 (or strong R).

"Heads or tails?" Xander held up a battered quarter that looked like it had been at ground zero when Sunnydale imploded.

Dawn, Buffy noticed, didn't bother to open her eyes or lift her head from the sticky vinyl of the bus seat. "Which one means what again?"

"Heads, you sleep in the motel room; tails, you sleep on the bus."

"I should have let Child Services take me," Dawn groused.

Buffy kicked the bottom of Dawn's foot, staring at her sister with an exaggerated frown. "Just for that, I'm taking the room."

"Hey!" Dawn sat bolt-upright, her eyes growing as big as saucers. "You can't do that."

A triumphant smile and a palm opened to expose the room key caused Dawn's eyes to narrow, going from saucers to slits in half a heartbeat. "Already did. Besides, I'm the one with the almost-mortal wound to recover from. See you in the morning."

Dawn's muttered grumbles faded to blissful silence as Xander and Buffy exited the bus, each carrying bags of dirty clothing. Maybe if she'd explained to Dawn that staying in the room also meant washing everyone's blood and dirt stained garments, by hand, with whatever soap the motel room provided, they wouldn't have had to go through the coin-toss farce. She let herself in, taking in the ragged carpet and nicotine ivory of the walls, not allowing herself the luxury of remembering when something like this wouldn't have seemed palatial.

"Ah. Room sweet room." Xander's voice was overly hearty, the cheerful notes thick with the strain of maintaining them. She tried to remember when the chipper tones were real and whole. Maybe before she came back, or before her mom died, or before Riley left.

"Are we flipping for the bed, too?" Xander wasn't the only one who could force cheer, though granted, hers was a little closer, okay, a lot closer, to being real. "Cause, if we are, I'm going to have to go with heads."

A ghost of a grin crossed his face along side the shade of a leer. "Heads, you get the bed, tails, we both do?"

"We can share, or take turns. Your call. And there's free HBO, so we can stay up way past our bedtime watching movies our parents don't want us to see." It was almost easy to say the words, to slip back in time to when she and Xander and Willow would stay up until it was time to get up, watching movies and being kids. Back when the grin would have had two eyes to meet. Her own smile wavered a little. "Xander--"

"Buffy, don't," he looked at her, the cheerful mask frozen on his face. "I'm not up to being serious right now."

She bit her lip and started hauling the bags into the bathroom. The water pouring from the faucet was hard and yellowed with things she didn't want to think about, turning the bathtub into a murky swamp of fabric and slimy half-formed soap bubbles that grew murkier and muddier as she scrubbed at the various shirts, pants and socks. She glanced at her own shirt, still covered in blood and ash, hesitated, then stripped down to her underwear.

A choked sound from the doorway startled her. Xander stood there, one last load of laundry in hand, trying to look anywhere but at her. "I'll just leave these... here," he said, hastily backing away.

"Xander." He paused, keeping his head twisted patch-side out. "You should hand me your shirt and pants, too. They're kind of filthy, and there's no sense in us stinking up the bus."

"You know, in all my years of dreaming about taking off my clothes with you, this is so not how I pictured it." But he followed her orders, blushing the whole time.

"Xander, I've seen you in swim trunks." Swim-trunk Xander had been kind of cute in the moments before she realized who was filling those Speedos. This Xander was a little more bulky, a little more ragged around the edges, but still kind of cute. She tossed a bar of soap at him. "Stop blushing and start scrubbing."

Two people didn't make the job go twice as fast. In fact, two people scrubbing clothes somehow devolved into two people splashing each other and fighting over the tiny bottle of shampoo when the midget soap bars finally gave up. Xander lunged for it, missed it completely, and toppled into her.

Under the dirt and dust, Xander smelled good. She'd forgotten Xander smelled good. Buffy looked up at him, startled, wondering why she wasn't making an effort to push him off. She'd grabbed hold of him to break their fall, and her hand was still on his waist. She should be moving that. Probably not in the way that she was moving it.

She definitely shouldn't be kissing Xander, but it just seemed like the thing to do. Or helping his hand unclasp her bra and then shoving off his boxers, but clean clothing wouldn't be any good without clean underwear, right? Buffy stopped trying to justify her actions as his hands slid up her thighs to grab hold of her underwear and pull them off.

This was probably a huge mistake, but she couldn't force herself to care. He closed a hand half-awkwardly over one breast, calloused palm brushing back and forth across her nipple until she was squirming and whimpering. She arched her back, thrusting her hips and rubbing herself against his cock, hardly noticing when it slid inside almost by accident. Buffy thrust harder, tightening around him and pressing into him, letting the feel of his movements and the weight of his body build sensations until they shut out reality.

He withdrew, thrusting against her, leaving her stomach a hot, wet, sticky mess. As reality came back, she gave thanks that he'd been slightly less stupid than she was.

"We should clean up," she suggested uncomfortably.

"Because that worked so well the first time." Xander sounded a little shell-shocked; she couldn't blame him.

"Well, it wasn't bad, exactly. Just... weird. I've always thought of you as a brother." Okay, she sounded even more shell-shocked than he did. Regret was starting to filter through, and it didn't exactly feel good.

Xander laughed, and it sounded almost genuine. "It's a good thing you don't have any brothers, Buff."

She punched him half-heartedly before scrambling to her feet and wiping herself off with a washcloth, wishing she hadn't already thrown her clothing in the tub. Not sure what to do next, she stuck her hands in the lukewarm water and started scrubbing the clothes. The shampoo bottle had fallen in during their not-so-epic battle, which rendered the effort pretty moot.

Xander grabbed her hands, pulling them gently off the sweatpants (she thought they were Kennedy's, but they could have been Faith's) she was using to try and get the stains out of her own shirt. "Hey," he said. "It's all right. Post-thwarted-apocalypse relief sex is something that happens to the best of us."

"Well, the plus side is, we probably don't have to worry about what might happen if we shared the bed." She gave him a wan smile, and he ruffled her hair.

"So, free HBO. What do you say we go wild, leave this stuff here to soak, and watch whatever they're showing?" His expression was pure Xander, all goofy concern and honest caring. Suddenly, she didn't feel so bad after all.

"Sure." Buffy wanted to either giggle or cry with relief, so she settled for a sheepish grin. "Sounds like a plan."

And...

The start of something REALLY random.

So this was the Slayer. Well, to get technical about it, a Slayer, thanks to a spell that sent ripples all the way to Hell and Lilah's voice mail.

This was Angel's big pre-Cordelia obsession? Without changing a bit of her polished, professional expression (a talent she'd perfected when alive, and improved on since death), Lilah sized her up, amazed that there was a woman out there who managed to make Winifred Burkle look voluptuous and womanly.

"Buffy Summers? I'm Lilah Morgan. I'll be handling some of the legal details surrounding your request, as well as the investigation and plausible rationale for removing the girls from their homes for training. In most cases, you'll find the Jenkins Memorial Scholarship to the prestigious Giles-Pryce academy does the trick, but for a few, we may have to resort to allegations of parental misconduct."

Buffy Summers, Lilah noted, pursed her lips with all the noble distaste of the very worst of the do-good set. Which was funny, considering the information contained within her file. Lilah could picture the girl's eyes going wide with shock and denial at the oh-so-rosy picture Lilah could paint with that information. Arson, truancy, suspected homicide, assault, a few problems with the military, harboring not one, but three known murders, not even counting Angel, child neglect--and that was just the table of contents.

Idly, Lilah wondered if it would bug Wesley to know that his ex-charge had more dirty little secrets than he did. But then, he'd assigned her the case, which meant he'd already seen the file. She lifted her brows with studied politeness, and waited for Buffy to speak.

"We're not taking girls from their parents," she said flatly. Buffy could give Wes a run for his money in frigid righteousness.

"We're not just talking about any girls, Ms. Summers. We're talking about Slayers. Unchecked and untrained, who knows what they could do?" A flicker of uncertainty crossed Buffy's face, and Lilah moved in for the close. "Imagine the damage half a dozen Faiths could do without proper training. All that rage and frustration combined with Slayer strength? Almost makes me happy I'm safely dead."

Buffy flinched, just like Lilah knew she would. Faith may have been reformed, released, and granted clemency following the greasing of wheels with a liberal application of cold, hard cash, but even without the files, it was easy enough to guess she remained Buffy's weak spot. "Fine, but only as a last resort."

The blonde head bent down over the stack of papers Lilah had brought for her to sign, leaving Lilah to watch her at her leisure and point out which pages needed initialing and which ones needed a full signature. The outfit screamed youth and bad taste making an effort at looking mature and confident. Even with fashion turning to deeper matte shades, the lips remained stubbornly coated in some shimmering neutral gloss that probably tasted like melons or berries.

Buffy Summers' file had a separate folder devoted to her taste in lovers. Lilah studied her french manicure as she listened to the sound of turning pages. "Initial that one. Twice," she commented when seventeen more pages had been read. In the five page lull that followed, she wondered if any dead body would do, or if it was just vampires.

She smiled slightly to herself, "Signature there." and decided it might be amusing to pass the time finding out. After all, it wasn't like Wesley was exactly knocking on the doors of Hell to give her a spin.

Oh, Plei. That's, err... scary, in a sort of way. And good.

Okay... my first piece for quite some time. Firefly, again.

- - -

Mal sits astride the horse, comfortable in the saddle even in this mad dash, and gallops towards Serenity. He can’t see her, but he knows the general direction, and Zoe and Jayne don’t seem to be arguing.

Just get a little closer, and she’ll be there. The wind in his face smells dusty, with just a tang of the fuel-and-grease smell that is the hallmark of rim ships. Like his. She’s not far away.

They reach the outcropping of rock where Wash landed the ship, and reign in the horses. Jayne and Zoe dismount and run aboard, not looking back—but Mal still can’t see Serenity, though somehow he can smell her.

He hears the ramp start to move, and urges his horse forward, thinking (illogically, and somehow he knows that this is wrong, though not why) to ride aboard: but the horse simply gallops on, over empty grassland. He shouts—No!—and…

…woke, mouth open in a scream he hoped was silent, body drenched in sweat and shaking.

Sitting up, he reached for the closest wall, feeling the hum of the engine reverberate through the ship, reminding himself that Serenity was still flying. Strange how the shaking in his own body was alien and uncomfortable, but the vibrations in Serenity were reassuring.

A few doors away, River screamed, and the sound seemed to echo in his head until he thought he might join her. //That’s enough, Malcolm Reynolds, he told himself firmly. That’s how people go crazy out her. Alone, and dreaming. I have a ship, a crew, and a job to do.

//Okay, so actually, we don’t have a job at the moment, unless you count Inara’s. And according to Kaylee, the ship’s falling apart..//

He forced himself to sit up and swing his legs out into the chill air of the room. //I still have a crew. Time to go and bother someone.//

At first, Mal thought he’d go and talk to Zoe, he knew she’d understand that he didn’t want to be alone, but when he found that she and Wash were locked in their room and—well, there were noises. He could guess what sort of thing was going on, and he really didn’t want to face his second in command if he disrupted them.

Even the most loyal crew member had limits—had to have, really.

So. Two crew members down (Mal quickly shut off the mental image that phrase produced), six to choose from. Well, five, if you took into account River’s not-quite-there status.

He wasn’t going to Book. Once, that might have been his ideal choice, but now—no. Religion didn’t help at a time like this.

Not Jayne, either. Jayne wasn’t exactly the sort to go to when what you wanted was company and not a murder.

Inara might not mind; but she might. And if she decided to make a fuss and embarrass him in front of the rest, she’d do it properly and he’d never quite live it down. Mal walked past the door to her shuttle.

He looked in at Kaylee—she’d left her door open—but she was sprawled, fully dressed, across the bed, sound asleep. She looked so peaceful that he couldn’t bring himself to wake her.

//Which leaves Simon,// Mal reflected. Deliberately, he headed for the common area instead of Simon’s room, trying to tell himself he was looking for another distraction but he’d forgotten that the infirmary was only around the corner.

“River?” Simon called, hearing noises outside. Footsteps on the metal gangway, and Mal suddenly found himself face to face with the worried doctor.

“Just me,” Mal said, taking a step back (how they’d got so close to start with, he wasn’t quite sure) and spreading his hands in an instinctive urge to be non-threatening.

“Ah. Were you looking for me, captain?”

“No, not really.” Mal glanced round, as if there might be something creeping up on him. “Just making sure things were okay.”

“Ah,” Simon nodded, and then added, “I couldn’t sleep, either.”

//Is it really that obvious why I’m here?// Mal wondered. //Better change the subject and think of something to do.// “You sound worried about your sister.” Blatant, and Mal wasn’t sure it would work, but Simon would always talk about River.

“She was yelling in her sleep about ten minutes ago. And these days she tends to be the first thing I think of when I hear noises I’m not expecting.”

“Understandable.” They stood in awkward silence for a moment, neither quite sure what to say. Mal tried to conjure up a desire to drink the cold tea that was sitting on the stove.

“Well,” Simon said, eventually, “I guess I should try and get some sleep.”

“If you like,” Mal replied, turning away, starting to hunt for a mug. “No point trying to force yourself, though.”

“True.” Simon took a couple of steps towards Mal and managed to meet his eyes again. “And if I’ve got company…”

“Didn’t say I’d stay.” It was a routine protest; there was a relief in Mal’s eyes that betrayed the calm in his voice.

“I was re-organising the drug cabinet.” Simon waved a hand vaguely towards the infirmary.

“Don’t let me stop you,” Mal said, pulling a mug from one of the cabinets and filling it with cold tea from the pot.

“Okay.” Unsure of what would happen, Simon started to walk up the steps that lead round to the infirmary. He was a little surprised to hear Mal follow him.

Mal sat on the bench, while Simon returned to his work, taking the bottles, boxes, and jars out, checking their labels and contents and then returning them to subtly different places.

“You really putting those in an order, or just where they fit neatest?” Mal asked, watching Simon work.

“Alphabetical order by chemical name,” Simon replied. “It helps when I need to find something in a hurry. And I’m checking how much there is of each thing, so that I know what’s most urgent to buy next time I get a chance.”

“All that, stored in your head?”

“Well, this is a tiny selection compared with what I’d have available on a core planet. Of course, there it would mostly be done on computers, or by a nurse; but as an intern, I was expected to have a grasp of how to do this without such aids.”

“Top three percent and all,” Mal said, but the remainder that Simon looked down on the situation here as less than ideal had stung a little. He didn’t like being forced to remember that his boat wasn’t the greatest place in the ‘verse—as far as some were concerned.

“… not the most difficult part,” Simon was saying, and Mal realised he hadn’t been paying attention. “Many of my classmates struggled with it, but I found learning emergency room procedures a lot more difficult. I didn’t learn well when there was real pressure.”

Mal nodded. “Ah.”

“What about you, captain?” Simon was still working, but now his eyes sought Mal’s between checking labels and places. “I… did okay at school, I guess. Graduated, joined the army ‘cos I thought it was right.”

“Do you still think that? That it was right?”

“The Alliance taking over the whole ‘verse ain’t right, I know that much.”

“Is that what it’s about, stopping them taking over?”

“Stopping them winning. Stopping them takin’ over the ‘verse and doing like they did to your sister to every clever girl.”

“Captain, I don’t think…” Simon’s voice trailed off. When he let himself, he *did* think. “I mean, it’s possible, but…”

“But what?” Mal asked.

Simon met Mal’s blue eyes. His mind went blank, and then spiralled away down a different path: //but… butt… nice butt… Captain Tightpants, Kaylee had called him. She was right, Mal’s backside was…// Simon didn’t dare wonder when he’d noticed. He forced himself look away from Mal and try and formulate an answer.

“I got River out,” Simon replied at last, “No point thinking about anything else until I’ve worked out what they did to her.”

He only wished he could stop thinking pointless thoughts, like how Mal looked when…

Aware that he’d stopped moving, Simon turned and walked the four paces across the infirmary to the cabinet where he kept the rest of the drugs.

Watching him every step of the way, Mal twisted on the bench until he was lying down, stretched out, chin propped up on one hand, and able to see the doctor wherever he went in the room.

“You never did tell me exactly how that underground group sprung her.”

“I’m not clear of the details myself. In essence, though, I believe they…” Simon began. He’d been preparing this, knowing that Mal or Zoe or Jayne or Wash or someone—maybe even River herself—would ask one day, and that made it easy to answer without being distracted. “…bribed someone within the compound to help them get through the security…”

//Well, at least I’m not dreaming,// Mal thought, letting his eyelids droop a little as he gazed at Simon, who was still talking, apparently quite happy to go on all night. “…must have been very dangerous, but I suppose they took very precaution they could. I paid them enough…”

Mal’s eyes closed. //I can listen with them shut,// he told himself. It wasn’t very convincing, even from inside.

A couple of sentences later, Mal was asleep, dreaming that he…

… walks, long, easy strides, along the metal corridors that let a person move around Serenity.

The cargo, he knows, is sold, though he can’t recall what it was; the crew are all aboard, the passengers are safe, and the ship is humming happily. Somewhere above, in the engine room, Kaylee is humming, a little cheerful counterpoint to the simple mechanical drone.

He can hear Simon’s voice, distant, talking in the soothing way he does when his sister needs calming.

Mal smiles. The dream ends, fading into darkness, and he sleeps on, peacefully.