the rest of Deb's story

Yes!! I forgot to comment on this, silly me. Nifty as all get-out, Deb, can't wait to hear more about the pornalicious shopping baubles.

I like to see the big cats.

Snerk!

And I didn't comment on Am-chau's, either. This is what happens when you're trying to lurk/work, but keep getting sucked in by fun and clever stuff.

What I meant to type was...

lots of skin, folded and creased enough to hide playing cards or kittens or possibly a small Eiffel Tower in

Nice combo. And an amusing mental image.

That’s not coincidence. That’s a redundancy plan.

Oh, man. Victor, perfect take, bro.

Am, loving this.

I love that Clem is intrigued by the big cats at the zoo. It must be like looking into the window of Godiva's Chocolates for him.

victor, i have a word choice question. From part 5:

"But the real stickler was that there were now two Slayers who’d be sticking around."

According to the Online Etymological dictionary, a stickler is a

person who contends or insists stubbornly

first recorded in 1644. I do not think it means what you think it means. t /inigo montoya

Maybe something like "kicker," "hitch," "complication," "insert a better word here."

I feel strange beta-ing since I am only a consumer here. I was always better at reading and editing than writing.

Xander’s face went serious. “It could be here right now.”

An electric shock washed down Dawn’s spine, but she only hesitated a second, reaching instinctively for the knife Faith had given her, years ago. Xander calmed her immediately by placing his hand on her shoulder, never once taking his eyes off the First as it morphed into Anya’s form.” “How long you known, Harris?” it said, a perfect echo of her caustic tone.

Geez Victor, you gave me cold chills. I like the "no idea on the snow" too.

Am Chau, I want more of yours--how perfect to have Clem the one who finds and "rescues" Spike redux.

And Deb, you already know how much I'm loving Retail Therapy for Watchers.

smonster, I missed the "stickler" thing, and read it as "sticker": my brain took it in as a sort of Xander-speak slang for "sticking point".

deb, yes, me too the first time. i was rereading all the bits together (b/c i love it!) and it 'stuck' out, so to speak. even if it were 'sticker,' there's 'sticking around' later in the sentence, which victor could change if he so desired, i suppose.

hee. i'm offering constructive criticism in run-on sentences. so take it at your own risk.

More, but it's bordering X-rated.

"Fred? Why are you doing this to me?"

Wesley heard the whingey bite to his own voice, and cursed to himself. Stop, he thought, stop pissing and moaning, because it won't do you the least bit of good. Just deal with it. This is the situation: For some reason, everyone - Angel, Gunn, Lorne, Olivia, Fred, and apparently all the Upper Management at present occupying the high level offices of Wolfram & Hart, presumably with picture windows and panoramic views of the ninth level of Hell - had decided to subject the two Watchers to some sort of ritual torture. Or perhaps it was a test. Did that matter? No, Wesley decided, the distinction was immaterial. Either way, he would have to play this insane game out to its logical finish....

"Here we are. First stop, Louis Vuitton."

Wesley blinked, set his jaw, and followed her into a modernistic temple of glass cubes, polished chrome edges, and staff who looked even glossier and less real than the architecture.

There was also leather. Rather a lot of leather, in fact; bags and wallets and keyfobs and shoes and an amazing steamer trunk. Wesley left Fred in deep discussion with a Eurasian saleswomen with a Body by Jake physique and gazed at the trunk. The pattern all over everything, those tiny LV initials - his grandmother had had a steamer trunk very similar to this one. His memory pushed at him, bringing up bits, a trip through England, to the tip of Scotland, taking the ferry to Skye, his grandmother's trunk loaded with fascinating things and the trip across the water from the mainland had been short but he'd been allowed to peep into that trunk, there had been....

"Wes? I don't think that's for sale. It's an antique." Fred was rubbing the ring with one fingertip. Something tiny, shiny, broke off between her rubbing fingers. There was a lovely apricot glow to her skin. "Want to come and look at some newer stuff? We're burnin' daylight here."

Another memory, pushing up through his subconscious like daisies in a neglected field. Wes himself, aged fifteen, dragged off to the South of France by his grandmother, to bear her company and give him a break from his demanding, impossible father. She'd spent the entire trip gambling in the casino at the Hotel Negresco in Nice. He'd met Eliane, eighteen years old, French-Sicilian, dusky as a rose, hot-blooded. She'd taught him that a man's tongue could be put to far better use than clicking in disapproval, especially if you were young and vigorous and the sun was glinting off the Mediterranean and....

"Wes?" Fred was murmuring something under her breath; it sounded like an equation. Wes was back on the rocky beach at Nice, night now, no one near, the waves hushing at their feet and the pebbles bruising his back as he arranged her on top of him and her mouth found him and fastened

and suddenly he was there, on the floor, there was a dark soft veil over everything and this wasn't the beach at Nice, it was the floor of a pricey luggage shop, what in hell was that ring anyway? and Fred was on top of him, if she'd been wearing knickers she certainly wasn't wearing them now, he had a hand on each of her slender thighs and he wasn't letting her move more than just the basic wriggling required and he was remembering everything the dusky rose Eliane had taught him about tongues, Fred was moaning but it was muffled because her mouth was full -

The ring. What in sweet hell was that ring? And where were the security guards that the Beverly Center surely kept handy, in case their customers decided that sixty-nining was an appropriate activity for the carpets of Louis Vuitton....?

"I want this trunk."

He heard his own voice, and for a moment, Wes was completely disoriented. He and Fred had been redefining oral sex on the carpet a moment ago, surely? He was weak in the knees, and there was Fred, smoothing her short skirt - under which, he now realised, there was no visible panty line - and swallowing, repeatedly. She looked almost loopy with contentment.

He forced his attention back to Miss Body by Jake.

"But sir," she was saying, "honestly, that's for display purposes, it's an antique, I can show you our updated-"

"Here." He pulled the Wolfram and Hart Titanium card from his pocket - when had he taken it from Fred? he couldn't remember doing that - and slapped it on the counter. "I don't care what it costs, call your supervisor and -"

Her eyes had gone very wide. She was staring at the embossed credit card.

"Yes, sir. I'm very sorry, sir. I didn't realise ..." She gulped, and picked up the card. "Where - where would you like this sent?"

• * *