She hit the ground and only stumbled a little. Fortunately, no one was around to see her less- than-Slayeresque performance. She thought.

"And what are we up to this bright and shiny hour of the night?" the familiar voice said as she reached the sidewalk.

"I don't need a babysitter, Spike."

"Beg to differ, pet." He fell into step next to her and lit a cigarette. "So where are we off to?"

"*I* am out for a walk. *You* are apparently out for a midnight lurk."

He didn't deny it. "You get Joyce settled in all right?"

"Yeah. She's asleep. At home. In her own bed." To her relief he didn't comment on the way her voice quivered.

They strolled along in silence for quite a while. Twice Spike smelled vampires nearby, but only one dared show its face. Dawn didn't notice when Spike saw the fledgling lurking in the alleymouth. He gave the newbie a flash of yellow eyes and fangs, and it ran instead of challenging the oldest vampire on the Hellmouth. He allowed himself a happy smirk. How lovely to be respected again.

"Spike?" Dawn asked abruptly.

"Yes, pet?"

"Do you remember the first time you saw me?"

"Yep. It was that night Slayer and I made a deal to stop Angelus and Acathla. I was sitting there next to your mum and I saw this scrawny little bint peeking down the stairs, all big eyes and braces on her teeth. Ow!" He rubbed his arm where she punched him. "I felt that, you're getting better."

"I remember that night. I heard the voices and I wondered who that was doing such a bad fake accent." She danced out of the way as he swung in return. "It's as clear a memory as sitting in class or going to ballet class when I was five." She stopped walking. "But the thing is, it never happened. You didn't see me that night and I never took ballet, because I was never five and I never wore braces, because before a few months ago, I didn't exist and you all lived in a completely Dawn-free world, and it's only because of that damned Key that I . . ."

Spike wrapped her in his arms and let her cry against him. "If you got me in a court of law and asked me, I would have to say that you've always been around. I've got too many memories otherwise. Everybody knew the Slayer was different, that she had a mum and a little baby sister to home. You believed in vampires and boogeymen before your mum did. More than once I'd catch you sneaking around and watching me, and you were never scared." He stepped back from her and made her look at him. "Pretty damned depressing, it was, too, that a little bit like you wasn't afraid of the big bad me."

"But you know it's not true," she whispered. "It never happened like that. All that was put in your head by the monks. They rewrote the world. There are papers at school that show my grades from elementary school. The dentist has records of fillings I've never gotten. This world's not real." She pulled away to pace. "Maybe it's still not real. Maybe it's all something I've made up. Maybe I really did go to ballet and wear braces. But maybe if I went home Mom wouldn't be asleep in her own bed, maybe she didn't come home from the hospital, maybe my mommy is really dead and I'm alone--"

He pulled her close again. "Hush, luv, hush. Your mum is going to be fine. You just got scared. Happens all the time. It's been rough, but it's over."

She buried her face against the rough t-shirt and breathed the smoke-and-leather scent that had always said protector to her. Buffy had given her lectures on being stupid for trusting Spike, but she had never, ever feared him. Maybe the monks had written that in, too, that here was a safe place, someone to run to if she ever had to.

There was another note to the flagrance now. She thought for several moments and finally recognized it as blood, but stronger than she'd ever smelled it on him before. Maybe he'd gotten a little sloppy over his last meal. She started to lean back so she could tease him on bad table manners, then realized the arms around her were tense and he was staring down the street.

"What?" she whispered. She flinched, just a little, when the ridges and fangs appeared on his face.

Spike growled at the appearance of a hooded figure with a scarred, bumpy face. "Glorificus be praised, is it true?" the creature said breathlessly. "Did I hear right? I heard you say monks, miss, and how they rewrote the world to fit you in. You're it, aren't you. You're the Key."

Spike shoved her behind him. "No, she's not, idiot. It's the Slayer's kid sister, she's fourteen years old, she's no bloody Key."

"Oh, but if the monks changed it so everyone THOUGHT she was fourteen--" The creature suddenly realized that an angry vampire was stalking towards him. "And you're Spike, the Slayer's vampire, and the Key was given to the Slayer to protect, so of course you'd be trying to protect it as well and--oh, dear." He lifted the skirts of his robe and ran like hell.

Dawn followed as best she could. The creature was running towards the fancy apartment building next to the park where Buffy said she'd finally caught that snake demon thing.

"Help! Help!" yelled the creature in the robes. More robed figures appeared. "He's going to kill me! The Key, it's h--"

Roaring, Spike jumped, claws reaching for the throat to pull out the betraying voice. The rest of the news disappeared in a gurgle as the creature fell. Spike landed on top of him and punched his fist through the ribcage to crush the heart between his fingers. When he looked up, the rest of the demony mob was almost on him.

"Run, girl!" he yelled at Dawn, who was still coming.

"Take him to Glory," one of the demons shouted, just before Spike ripped his throat out as well. The rest dogpiled onto Spike, dragging him down slashing and swearing.

Dawn froze, watching the fight,

Dawn froze, watching the fight, watching the blood.

Spike yanked half free and saw her. "God damn it, Dawn! Run!" One of the creatures looked in her direction and died for his interest. The others focused on containing Spike.

She took a step towards him, wanting to help. He managed one more glare at her before a demon smacked his head against the pavement, knocking him out.

Crying, she spun and ran, remembering grade-school races she never ran in and days that never happened when she was happy and safe.

I love it, connie. I love the Dawn-Spike-- that's a little Dawn-->Spike--, and I love the lines

She'd changed her clothes before she really thought of it, and the window frame slid up easily. Out in the night she was no longer scared Dawn Summers, counting her mother's breath. Out in the dark she could run, and maybe this time she could get away.

She shimmied over to the convenient tree branch, then down to the ground. Freedom, stupid, risky freedom. Time to see what the night thought of freedom.

Oh, good, that does make sense. I wrote that at 4 AM last night and had to go back twice because I was nodding off and only dreaming htat I was typing.

connie! Yay!

That is SO good. Love Xander for building Joyce's ramp. Love the Dawn and Spike repartee.

Oh how I miss Dawn and Spike. Lovely Connie. More! More!

Latest chapter is up at Ye Olde WebSite [link]

And may I just gloat and say I've got six people on the mailing list. That makes me almost happier than hte number of hits. I'm such a pathetic feedback whore.

I posted fic to the lists for the first time since I started college. This is eepworthy. But, um, here it is. Not Buffy. Utmost thanks to Hil for her help here.

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Title: Warning Label
Author: s.a.
Rating: A hard R.
Pairing: Will/Chuckie, Will/Schuyler.
Fandom: Good Will Hunting.
Disclaimer: Don't know whose they are, probably Affleck, Damon, and assorted Big Kahunas. Not mine. Which you knew.
Spoilers: Well, the movie.
Feedback: It's the best kind of crack. email: sa@bluezfire.org
Distribution: Hole in the Ground, [link] List archives. Just ask.
Author's Notes: Oh, geez. Tell me you see Affleck and Damon in a movie and not slash them. Hell, if I were into RPS (which I am not) I'd slash them. But I'll be satisfied with GWH. For now.
Summary: A smart-mouthed Southie with a hard fucking life.

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When he punches the shit outta some guy he knows from kindergarten, he ain't doing it to get in good with his parole officer.

Will likes the feel of his curled fist hitting solid flesh and bone, and the way the skin smashes to form a bruise. How the guy will maybe spit out some blood makes a thrill rush through his body like some high he can never get rid of. It's real, in a way shit never is for Will Hunting - no matter how hard he tries to bullshit otherwise.

Real, Will figures, is mopping up floors for a bunch of yuppies who don't even see him as he walks by. Real is the demo job Chuckie hooks him up with. Real is Chuckie and Morgan and Billy and drinking till last call then stumbling home afterwards. Real is going home with Chuckie and pounding into him hard and messy and fast, so that when he sees Chuckie's swagger in the morning Will knows it ain't because he's trying to look cool.

All this mathematical bullshit, all this parole crap and counseling is just shit thrown at him to make him try and be something he's not. 'Cause what is he? A smart-mouthed Southie with a hard fucking life that ain't easy but it's *his* so why the fuck is this asshole trying to screw with him?

Because of all the fucking unreality he goes out drinking till whenever and wakes up plastered to Chuckie's back. Chuckie's mom thinks they're "sleeping over" like they used to do when they were ten, right before they figured out what tits were and right after they discovered that each other's hands were a much better substitute than their own.

His mind disappears in the sex, and he pretends the sledgehammer is going through any one of a million fuckers' heads. He loses himself in the thrill of kicking some idiot's ass, and all because he can't stop fucking thinking--

--not squares. Everybody and their fucking dog's tried squares. The CN can get down to 9 with side 3/5, but he knows there's something better. Hexagons'll tessellate, but what size? The longest diagonal can't be more than one, but if it's too small there's gonna be too many colors so maybe each side could be one-half; but the angle is 120, which means sin 30 is 1/2, times 2, sin 120, and then you flip it with 2 radical 3 over 3. Fuck, that's greater than one. No good. So the diagonal's 1, but what about the goddamned hexagons? Pentagons don't tessellate, but he could mix 'em with triangles--

--which is another fucking math problem that asshole Lambeau gave him. A fucking math problem he can't get out of his mind, even when Chuckie's jacking him off in that perfect way that only comes with time and a helluva lotta practice. Because even if he got the best blowjob of his life he'd still be wondering if diamonds would fit better into the pattern than those frigging hexagons.

Then he's falling for Schulyer and figuring out the problems and talking with Sean twice a fucking week, and he still finds time to drink till he passes out with his boy. Occasionally he'll wander over to see what Chuckie's doing, and they'll get in a quick jack before work and maybe a fuck after, because Chuckie's his best friend ever and no chick could fuck that up.

Course, then everything goes to shit and all he wants to do is sit in a corner and drink till he's unconscious, maybe after going a round with the wall.

In the end it's Chuckie, like it always is, who makes Will change his fucking life. Even as he's packing his shit into his -- his! -- crappy car, he's thinking about Chuckie and how he's gonna get him to come out to California. He's thinking about Schuyler and getting a job and Chuckie, all in a really big effort not to think about how this whole thing's got him scared shitless. He shoves the last of five boxes of books into the trunk, slams down the lid, and putts over to Sean's house.

Leaves a note.

Gets on the interstate and doesn't look back.

Okay, I'm not sure about this. It probably needs some work. It's 10 chapters, each a drabble- exactly 100 words- long, and thus precisely 1000 words, which I'm ridiculously pleased about. Tell me what you think- comments on typos, grammar points, etc, very welcome.

Wesley/Angel, R, Romance/angst, end of season 2 Angel, 5 Buffy.

1.

He looked along the street, peering out the window, and saw him- the man- surely he is a man- he loved. In the gloaming, his dark coat was nearly invisible, but the set of his shoulders told Wesley everything that he needed to know. His lover was brooding again.

Well, the Englishman thought, I can do something about that. I have all that is required: Irish whiskey, the best American money can buy; clean sheets, red satin; my body, freshly showered; and handcuffs, stronger than even the fittest vampire. Oh, yes. It’s a good thing we dealt with the curse.

2.

He’s probably watching me from the window. He does that- stands by the window and looks along the street. It’s such an old-fashioned gesture, it makes me think of Sherlock Holmes and London. Of course, that leads to thoughts of William and Drusilla- everything leads me back to them.

I hurry into the hotel, barely noticing that Cordelia has left and there is filing still to be done, trying not to run up the stairs- I don’t want him to hear me coming- but he saw me enter, and is waiting at the top, my prince in a smart suit.

3.

I pull gently on his sleeve. He almost falls into my arms. We walk to the bedroom, holding each other like we will be torn apart forever if we let go. The bed is neatly made, the whiskey is cold, and I undress him slowly. Coat first (why he didn’t leave it downstairs?); then trousers, to reveal pale legs, then shirt, to find broad chest and strong shoulders.

His skin is cool, soft, but not cold in the heat of the evening. He lies back, a tiny smile. “Love you, Wesley,” he says, and adds as an afterthought, “Fuck me?”

4.

My lover is careful, but strong: his long fingers brushing my skin as delicately as an ancient text; his blue eyes watching my face for every reaction; his mouth licking, nipping, sucking every inch of me. The alcohol softens the edges of the room, casting our little bed afloat on a sea of dreams, until we wash up at a shore of pleasure.

He pushes inside me, tenderly. His human gasps excite me more than the strength of a vampire, and his heart beats so hard I mistake it for my own. When I come, I cry out his name.

5. We wrap around each other and settle into sleep. Mine is dreamless, but at midnight I wake, because his isn’t. He shifts restlessly, trying to escape some horror or avert a disaster. I run my hands over him, stroking through his hair, trying to soothe the fears away, but to no avail. Nearly an hour passes before he wakes, shaking in the dark.

When he speaks, he tries to explain, but the full terror he feels isn’t told. His eyes show it. This is guilt, and what he fears is himself. “I killed her. She’s dead- again- I couldn’t stop.”

6.

He understands better than I can explain, and I’m glad of that. I don’t want to have to spell out who is dead- he knows, he met her, he cared for her when she would let him- and he was here when Willow told us. I wasn’t there, but every detail is etched in my mind, from talking to the others. Spike saw every moment, and his gift with words brings it to my mind.

“She jumped, Sire,” he told me when I asked, “She jumped and she’s gone- and I fucking love her! You know that? I love her!”

7.

I know who is dead. I also know he loves her still, because I heard him telling Spike. “So do I,” he said, and the other vampire accepted that. I have accepted it too: I will never hold my lover’s heart, and that is simply the way it is. It hurts to know that he is not wholly mine, however loud and often he cries my name, but it is the way it must be. I am not his soul-mate, not even his first choice when deprived of her. I will be fighting ghosts forever- Buffy, Doyle, and Darla, too.

8.

At breakfast, Wesley is quieter than usual. “I’m sorry I woke you,” I tell him, “You can go back to bed for a while, if you like.” But he shakes his head.

“It’s not that, Angel. Though if you want to go back to bed, I don’t mind coming with you.” The raised eyebrow and the subtle innuendo are a tempting reminder of what we could be doing. I think he’s trying to change the subject. What’s more, he’s succeeded.

“Later, Wes. How’s the research coming?” Damn demons and their evil ways: I don’t want to be a hero anymore!

9.

Angel’s brooding, probably over Buffy. He claims to be focused on the case, but my books have nothing.

I could weep- it’s unfair that he must continue working- most jobs give compassionate leave when you’re bereaved, but not his: Cordelia’s had three visions already this week. He hasn’t grieved properly, there are nightmares every night, and he still goes out and fights.

On the other hand, it could be for the best. If he didn’t, he might be trying to kill himself. I was quiet this morning, and I think he worries: but it’s because I’m worried. I can’t win.

10.

“I don’t mind.”

“Don’t mind what?”

“That you don’t love me.”

“What are you saying?”

“You love Buffy. I heard you telling Spike.”

He heard that? I meant to comfort, not to upset. “There’s a difference,” I begin. Why did I never learn to explain things?

“Yes- you love her, not me.”

“No, I loved her. Now she’s… I love you.”

“You can’t just stop.”

“Then I love you both. Her in the past, you now. Okay?”

He hesitates, so I reach out. Blue eyes with a frown in them- then it goes, and I hold him.

God, this hurts.