I sometimes say fetch, but more often, "can I get that for you" or, "I got that thing you wanted", or "I picked up what you asked for". I say, "Greg gave me a ride over" or "I got a ride from Bozo".

"True—but that could be a good thing. If you let me put these down inside, I’ll go and fetch the rest—Xander gave me a lift, but he couldn’t stay to help carry."

For the second time that day he stood back to allow me to enter. This time, I went back past him almost at once, saying, "I can help for maybe two hours, then I must be off again."

Actually, this is how I'd write this bit, trying to think in Willow-speak.

"True, but, that's a good thing, right? If I could just put these down? inside?" I waited for him to move. He was a little slow, today, but that wasn't really surprising. "Thanks. And then I'll go get the rest. Xander gave me a ride over here, but he couldn't stay to help so it's all just piled on the sidewalk, willy-nilly." I juggled my hands, trying to demonstrate willy-nilly. It's hard to do when you're carrying things. "I can help for, like, 2 hours, and then I have to get to class."

I think the criterion here is whether Willow, regular or AU, would be likely to say 'fetch' in any context other than to a dog. And try as I will to put that into her world or her voice? Can't make it fit.

If one thought it would be interesting to see a certain fanfic setup, would it be kosher for one to throw it out in this thread as a challenge and see if anyone took it up?

I'd think so. There's also a community at LJ, [link]

But I've no objections to the gauntlet being tossed here.

OK, I'd like to see HP/BtVS crossover fic. Since the principles of the supernatural operate so differently in the two 'verses, I'm thinking parallel universes with some sort of magical crossover, and the character flung out of his/her own universe would be a bit discombobulated at first. I'd like to read one or both of the following:

1. Spike wakes up from dying in Sunnydale to find himself in HPverse England. He becomes the next Defense Against the Dark Arts instructor.

2. Hermione comes to the Jossverse. For this, I'd assume that the HP stories are running a bit behind our timeline, and that Hermione et al. are actually about the same age as Buffy, Willow, and Xander.

Damn! As a Harry Non-reader, I'm a-gonna watch.

Susan, that sounds worryingly like a gateway drug to the Spike/Draco/Lex I dreamt I wrote last night.

Deena, I like your Willow, and I'll think on what y'all have said about Americanisms.

Anyway, as I DO NOT WRITE HARRY POTTER, I think I'll give you the next bit of this EditIP. Warning: darkfic was an alien concept to me.

Chapter Four

"Come in, Rupert," he says, opening the door as I’m getting my keys out. I look at him to smile my thanks, and do a quick double take. He’s wearing something very akin to a zoot suit and, strangely, it looks stunning. I’m not sure if it’s the clothes themselves, the body inside them, or simply the fact that they don’t include and denim or leather. Perhaps all three. Anyway, it renders me speechless.

"Like it, pet?" he asks. When I nod, he pulls me indoors and grabs a brief kiss prior to my taking any notice of what he’s done to the room. Not that it’s in any way bad, you understand, just—tidy. No books strewn all over. No coating of dust on the shelves. No old pizza boxes, on the table—instead, candles. China plates.

"You want to eat now, or later?"

"Now," I reply. Apparently my brain hasn’t completely seized up from the shock- yet. I sit at the table—a table with wine glasses—while he briefly disappears from view, only to reappear within seconds bearing dishes of food that smell—to be precise, they smell like the things like used to emerge from my mother’s kitchen. Alright, so now I’m extremely hungry, not just the very I was on the way home. So much so that my mouth is watering.

He lifts the lids one at a time, explaining as he goes.

"Potatoes with mint in, like the maid used to make; mushy peas, just the way you like them; lamb—it wanted mutton, but I settled for lamb; and Yorkshire pudding, because… well, it’s what you’re supposed to have."

He looks at me, his clear blue eyes brought out by the colour of the fabric and soft curls of honey coloured hairs hanging down his forehead. For a moment, I am captivated by the sight, but then I realise he is looking for something. Appreciation? Acceptance? Encouragement? I’m not sure, and so I plump for an honest reaction.

"It looks wonderful, William—and it smells better. Am I allowed to taste it, or am I to wait until I’m drooling onto the tablecloth?"

That earns me a grin much more Spike than William—and, dear lord, I sounded like I was channelling Xander. I still do. Shut up and watch William, as he picks up a spoon and begins to serve out. The way the suit…no, eat now, other things later.

Later, when my suspicions have been laid to rest (the food tasted just like it had been cooked from the recipe book my mother used, probably the same one William’s mother used, but certainly the one I keep on the shelf (the single shelf, now everything has to be here or in the shop) of non-demonology books.

I also suspect that William didn’t do the cooking. He is incapable of following instructions to the letter, and my guess is that Willow or Buffy helped, maybe Tara. I deem it best to keep quiet, however- it’s the thought that counts, and he did set the table. He’s left handed, and always sets the knife on the left. It must be some measure of how I feel about him that I notice things like that, and spend time thinking about them, imagining those clever fingers handling the cold metal… but be careful, Rupert, you’re getting distracted). We move over to the sofa, but the television stays off, the only source of light the flickering candles.

He sits awkwardly, half facing me, half turned away. We are holding hands, so, watching his face to gauge the reaction, I lift his hand with mine and kiss the back of it. Immediately his eyes are on me, smiling at the gesture but also with a spark of nervousness, even fear, within their depths. As that was the general sort of thing I was hoping for, I twist all the way around to face him fully, left knee bent so that my foot tucks under my right knee. Then I let go of his hand just long enough to move it to my other one, and slide my arm up behind his shoulders, ready to pull him close.

I take the time to send whatever spirit is guarding me today a quick prayer of thanks that Anya didn't wake me when I fell asleep on the pile of new invisibility cloaks I was meant to be cataloguing, because that is the only reason I’m still awake, before I say, "Thank you, William."

He has been watching me all along, tensing his muscles so as to remain still, and now he widens those expressive eyes in surprise, asking for more details.

"Thank you for being here," I continue. "Thank you for dressing up for me, for supper, for not trying to make me talk when I was eating, for cleaning the apartment. Thank you for setting up this evening for me."

He smiles, but doesn’t say anything, apparently deciding that it’s now my turn to do the work. Which is fine by me—I've got plenty to say.

"I’ve really enjoyed it, but there is something missing."

• * *

Something missing, he says. Yeah. I’m not human, and he doesn’t love me. I don’t trust myself to speak without letting him see my tears, so I just concentrate on staying where I am, not snatching my hand away and running off to stake myself. Any time with him is better than no time.

"… what we’re missing is honesty. We’ve been a couple, living and sleeping together, working together, for nearly six months, but neither of us has ever really begun to talk about how we feel."

Ah, so this is where he asks me how I feel, and I…I should have written and rehearsed that declaration of love after all. Here it comes, the dreaded- no, it doesn’t sound like a question.

"I really don’t know how you’re going to react to this, but I’ve got to say it."

• * *

He continues to look at me, carefully hiding whatever he is feeling behind ‘the mask of Spike’, the picture of I’m-a-bad-vampire-with-no-feelings-and-I-don’t-care-about-yours.

It must have been cultivated over many years to transform him into what he believed Drusilla wanted him to be, but now he uses it to hide when his emotions are in turmoil. When he’s wearing jeans and boots, it suits him very well, and must have protected him from much heartache over the years- if not the pain of feeling, then the pain of his feelings being known. On the other hand, it doesn’t quite go with what I can now see are patent leather shoes.

Stop thinking, Rupert, look down at his hand in yours and say what you have to say. He can’t- won’t- wouldn’t- bite you.

"William, I…I love you."

• * *

What! That’s supposed to be my line, and he’s supposed to reject me! Does that mean I should—no, William, you want this, react the way he does when you fantasize the ideal way of telling him about your feelings. Let a little smile out past the mask, turn around a touch, and lean forward into his embrace.

• * *

He frees his hand from mine, as I’d feared he might, but it is only to run it up my arm, and my fears are calmed as he leans forward into my embrace. It makes me supremely happy, even though the position is more than a bit awkward, because as he nestles up to me, I hear him whisper, "Love you too, Rupert."

I clasp him tight at that, and know that this will rapidly turn into something else. I know because he has begun to pepper light kisses up and down my neck and over my ear, all the bits of exposed skin he can reach. This evening will go down in my private diary as one of the best of my life.

I'm literally nodding off here in my chair, but I wanted to finish this bit, it's rather crucial. What happens next. Inevitable errors will be fixed tomorrow, and I'm afraid it's not as angsty as I want it.

[link]