I am, handsome stranger.

Soon time for lunch, methinks. Tummy's a bit grumbly.

I'm gonna grab a bite for late dinner, methinks. But I'll be back to play later.

eta: Gah! Someone else who uses `methinks.' I didn't even see it. How very ... auspicious.

Karl, you must come to Montreal for the next F2F. It'll be a crime against me if you don't.

[link]

And more carnage at the convent. Elena, you need to catch up. Off to bed t evil chuckle

connie, I very much do.

Last of it.

---

"I don't understand."

Olivia watched him in the darkness of the Lexus. Giles' voice was shaking; his soul was shaking. He couldn't seem to stop, any more than he could comprehend why it was happening.

"Celet." He was trying to read her, gauge her, provoke her into explaining, but in the corner of the limo's back seat, Olivia's dark skin was part of the night itself. "Celet. Let it be hidden. That's not a spell, is it? It's a part of one, but it's not a spell. It's that damned bracelet, you did something to me with that bracelet."

She sighed, a soft mournful sound. "Rupert -"

"What were you telling to hide, Olivia? My lies to myself about Buffy? My failure? I failed her. Didn't I?" His eyes were grainy with the weight of unshed tears. "Over and over and over. I've been so proud of her, and I had no right to be proud. All I did was let her down, every step of the way. I never even -"

She leaned forward, snaking both hands behind his head. She put her lips against his, not to kiss, but rather to speak, the soft lips forming a word, in English this time.

"Return," she whispered, and she snapped the final charm from the bracelet.

It was fire, and thunder, all of his history screaming through him like a hot wind. Every moment, every scene, Buffy walking into the Master's lair, facedown in water, falling from Glory's tower, murdering her lover because her Watcher told her it was her duty, he saw the disgust and finality in her face when she understood his betrayal over Spike, he saw her drugged and weakened and endangered at the hand of the one she trusted most because the Council of Watchers had ordered it, every mistake, every wrong word, every snap and snarl and expression of impatience, every betrayal

oh God NO

and the orgasm was death, his own death, searing through body and brain and spirit and he was down the dark stairs into nothing at all and

"Rupert." Olivia, soft against him, stroking his cheek, calm and sane. "It's all right. You're back."

He wept into her arms. Slowly, almost casually, the Lexus made its way back to Wolfram and Hart.

• * *

"I don't understand."

"You're not supposed to." Fred sat back against the leather upholstery. "Or, you weren't supposed to. You're almost there now, though. Understanding, I mean."

"Faith...." His voice fell away, fragmented into nothing. He was rigid with memory that danced on he edge of his awareness, but what wasn't he remembering? "She and I - there's something -"

"Do the math," Fred told him gently. "It isn't only about Faith."

"Isn't it?"

"Of course not. There's that whole little Lilah thing." She tucked her legs up and twisted to face him. "Those memories, those - moments. They went through me, remember? I felt them all as you were feeling them, only a lot more complete, because I took it all, Wes. Oh, and by the way, that French chick? Dayum, honey."

He was quiet for a few moments. "Then what happened tonight? What kind of spell did you bring along from Wolfram and Hart, and why?"

"You've been gone awhile," she said obliquely. "Distant, vacant, kind of missing, somehow. Been through too much. You and Giles both. Angel felt you needed to come on back."

"But-"

"Sssh." She slid into his lap, her hands twisting together, the soft glow of the ring lighting up the Lexus as it slipped quietly through Los Angeles, wrapped in a cocoon of sorcery. "Return."

• * *

"There was no contest?"

"Oh, for - of course not. Not for you, anyway." Angel had been gazing out over the city, his back to the room. He came to his desk and sat on the edge. "We needed you back. Both of you were - let's face it, you were muffled, buried, distant, completely out of touch with who you were and what you were doing. Too much went on for both of you and you both retreated. We can't have it that way - we need you both and we need you here and we need you now. You're a pair of mules and you're both too smart for my peace of mind. So I talked to some honcho experts at the head office and they hooked me up with a seer, and, well, jewels and girls and scary revelations at the Bevery Center."

"And the sex," Lorne told them, before either could ask. "The sex, I know, way mucho over the top, but both of you? Honestly, boys, you've been doing the I'm so misunderstood thing and there's nothing a little of the sweet bumpy stuff to make sure you can't whine about your mama-confessor not understanding you afterward. And they do, really." He waved an affectionate green hand at the two women. "Don't you, ladies?"

"Oh yeah. The hard way." Olivia nodded at Fred. "But we pulled it off and everyone gets a prize, you know? Even though there was no real contest? Angel gets his Big Brainy Boys functional again without all the River in Egypt shite. Our Watchers got rather a lot of lovely swag. And we get an hour tomorrow with the Titanium card, to buy whatever we want."

Fred slipped her hand into Olivia's, giggled suddenly, and kissed her. "My very best shopping buddy!"

• *

Very nice Deb, as always.

Ah, Deb, sorry to have to tell you this, but - now you need to write Olivia and Fred's shopping trip. Sorry, I only make the rules.

and there's nothing a little of the sweet bumpy stuff

I'm assuming this should read `and there's nothing like a little of the sweet bumpy stuff' ?

Cracking stuff, Deb.

Um. This is a little... odd.

About a year ago, I wrote a practically novel length fanfic, set in an AU of my own devising. Some parts of it, because it was written in odd orders and I didn't see where I was going when I started, have been shown in various places, and at times I've got feedback, but to my knowledge nobody's read all of it.

In clearing out my hard drive a little, I've looked at the set of files, and... some of it's quite good. I had good feedback on some parts, in some places. And some people on FF.N *really* liked some of it. Which is scary.

It needs work, it needs thinking through and editing, but I can do that. I just need to know if it's worth it.

So... I've edited the first part, which Plei betaed for me, quite some time ago. When I wrote this, I was very pleased with it, although it turned out to be set rather earlier in the story than I'd expected. My first ever slash, I think. I'll be very grateful for any comments you have.

- - -

He works to nearly human hours now, but there are still evenings when he is restless and paces the floor like a caged tiger until sunset. Then, he can leave, to pick a fight with whatever demon is stupid enough to take him on. Sometimes they aren’t so stupid.

Whatever he found last night clearly comes into that category, because when he crawled into bed in the early hours of the morning he was a mass of wounds, cuts, grazes, tooth and claw marks—I'd gone to bed, though I couldn’t sleep without his strength, his cool skin, his stillness near my own warm body. I put out my hands, meaning to soothe him, to ease the hurts, but he pushed me away and we slept separately.

The clock struck noon long ago; soon it will strike one, and the girls (women, really; I should work to think of them that way) will be here. Many of the minor blemishes have gone from his lily-white skin, but some remain. There is a deep slash just below his collarbone—in the hollow of his left shoulder where he held me more times than I could count—which is festering a cruel collection of blues, purples and blacks. There is a heat in it, too, a heat that should not be there.

I’ve tried to shake him, wake him up, but he is so heavy, and I’m tired; my attempts are to no avail. My books tell me nothing. Either the answers I need are not recorded there, or I’m too sick with worry to be able to find them. Buffy and Willow are coming over soon. Perhaps…Wait! He’s stirring in his sleep—but no, he rolls away from me and sleeps on, quiet once more.

He frowns and murmurs something, probably a name, and my heart doesn’t allow me to hear, for fear it isn’t ‘Rupert’ but ‘Drusilla’, ‘Angelus’ or ‘Buffy’. When my pulse stops drumming in my ears, all is silent and still again—for a short time. The door clicks open, and I hear two familiar sets of footsteps.

"Giles?" Buffy calls, and the sound of her voice jolts me into action as it has always done. I stand from my place at Spike’s beside and hurry downstairs, making an effort, probably in vain, to keep quiet.

"Hush!" I say, urgently, and as the girls draw close to me I whisper, my voice made harsh by fears and choked back sobs of despair. "Spike is- I don’t know, injured or ill. Some sort of demon hurt him badly last night, but I don’t know what."

"Oh, Giles, I’m sorry. This must be terrible for you--you should have called! We can help with the research and things." Willow spouts sympathy, but Buffy is more business like.

"The books don’t tell you anything?" she asks, gesturing round my apartment at the open volumes lying on everything, volumes she sometimes seems to regard as holding all the secrets of the universe. Mark you; sometimes I think of them that way too.

"Not that I can find, no--but I, I..." my voice gives up, and I turn away, trying not to share my pain.

"We’ll find out, Giles," Buffy tells me firmly, guiding me to an armchair. "Can we tell anything from Spike’s injuries?" I note that Willow seems to have disappeared, and hope wildly that she’s gone to put the kettle on. I could really use some tea right now.

"I’m not sure-- only his shoulder still looks bad."

"Right, I’ll look. When Will’s done in the kitchen, she can get the others over here." Willow has heard her name and come through, so Buffy gives her direct orders, "We need the others—Tara, Xander, Anya. If that’s okay, Giles—" I barely have time to nod—"Good. More people means quicker answers."

I just sit there, as they explode into a whirlwind of activity. This is what I trained them for, I think as I sit and watch, to react in time of need. Willow lifts the phone and dials with practised speed.

Soon the Scoobies are assembled—even Riley, though no one had told me he was back in town, let alone Buffy's good books. He and Buffy are planning patrol routes for tonight, everywhere Spike might have been. I sit by Spike’s side, being fed chocolate and tea every so often by Xander, who seems to be planning to patent the combination as a cure for all ills. Anya tries to comfort me in her tactless way, and Willow and Tara huddle over some mixture of magic and science designed to analyse the orange gooey stuff which has begun to seep out of the cut, and something they found on the clothes he wore yesterday.

The presence of so many people does comfort me, but it makes me want to scream as well. I can’t help the illogical feeling that if they all left, Spike would wake up as normal, and we’d be back to the routine, him and me, the old British guys together. He annoys me sometimes—often—and puzzles me too, and at the moment my longing to hear that voice again is driving me even closer to tears.

I love him in a way I haven’t loved since Jenny died, in a way I’d maybe never loved before, even when I was with Ethan. Spike loves deeper and easier than I do—or maybe he’s simple had more practice.