(I know the pieeeeeeeces fit...)

(edit: just realised, I slutted the 5K. Huh.)

Okay, I've got my slashfic assignment done, and I'm going to post it here for comment (it's not due until tomorrow midnight, which gives me some tweaking time). It's 1000 words exactly, needs to be Angel/Wesley, and contain a Monty Python quote. It takes place right before Deep Down (the season 4 opener). There's a certain MP quote that just really fits Wes at that point in his life.

Going Deep Down

Wesley pushes against the side of the cage, testing its give. He frowns, hesitates, then picks up a re-bar and acetylene torch.

Being a touch overcautious, don't you think?

The last time I let my guard down around her I ended up with my throat slit.

Point well taken.

He fires the torch and sets his safety glasses on.

We're certainly going to a lot of trouble for our guest.

She knows where Angel is.

Do you really think that she's going to tell us anything?

She will. Eventually.

Angel huddles against the wall of the cell, shying away from the light. Wes steps in, cautiously edging toward the vampire, telling him that he's safe now. Angel looks up, brown eyes vague, expecting pain; disbelief and joy slowly work across his face as he whispers the name of his rescuer. Flinging himself forward he wraps his arms around Wesley's waist, pressing his face against him, whispering over and over 'WesWesWesWes' as he moves his head, nudging against hardening flesh, pressing and sliding, building and releasing pressure. Wes buries his hands in dark curls, pushing hard and moving his hips rhythmically while teeth nip at his erection through the cloth of his trousers.

That seems unlikely. We have no idea what kind of shape Angel will be in when we locate him.

When, exactly, did my inner monologue become a debating society?

When you had your throat slit and all of your friends deserted you.

I had almost forgotten that.

Liar.

Wes shovels furiously, dirt flies around him in a dusty cloud. Metal rings against wood and he throws himself forward, brushing frantically at the ground until he reveals the lid of a coffin. He can hear faint scratches from within. He redoubles his efforts, carefully breaking open the lid, trying to free its occupant without damaging him. A hand pushes free from the detritus; Wes grabs it, shouting for Angel to hang on, that he's almost free. One tug and a body appears, white, gaunt, starving. Wes takes him in his arms, pulling him out of the grave. Angel clutches Wes, burying his face in the crook of his shoulder, pressing their bodies close, shaking uncontrollably. Wes moans slightly and tries to put some space between them, but Angel won't allow it. He grabs Wes' hips, forcing him close, rubbing their erections together. His lips move over Wes' face, his neck, his throat. They pause against the scar, still red and raised and fragile, a delicate barrier holding in blood and life, and part to allow Angel's tongue to come out and taste the damaged flesh. Wes gasps, gulping air, throat moving in a wordless plea; Angel looks up and smiles with long and dangerous teeth before dipping down to rip at Wes' vulnerable flesh.

That does seem much more likely.

Yes. Perhaps manacles would be in order.

Chaining Angel does seem to be the reasonable thing to do.

Reasonable. It will be interesting to behave reasonably.

We are slightly out of practice.

Wes sets the torch down and pushes the cage into the closet.

Very out of practice.

Angel dangles upright, chained to the stone wall of the sewer. His clothes hang from his emaciated body in ragged tatters, skin gleaming impossibly pale from beneath the rent fabric. He looks up as Wesley enters the room - altered by a sound, a smell, some other preternaturally attuned sense. Hopeless eyes stare at Wes from a gaunt face. Wes walks forward; arm outstretched in greeting or sympathy, and speaks the vampire's name. Angel starts, hope drifting into his face. Wesley cups Angel's cheek, letting him know that he's really there. Angel turns further into the hand, seeking out its warmth and gentleness. Wes reaches for a manacle, but Angel stops him with a shake of his head. He stops, confused, until he realises Angel's desperate hunger; moving back he slowly rolls up his sleeve. Angel shakes his head, denying his need, refusing Wes' offering. Wes draws a blade across his forearm; blood wells up from the shallow cut. Angel's nostrils flare and his pupils dilate as he fights his vampiric instincts. Wes brings his arm to Angel's mouth; he licks his lips, but turns away, eyes down, face shamed. Wes grabs Angel's chin, forcing him to meet his eyes, letting him know with no uncertainty that Angel will accept what is offered. Angel's face is tormented, need and fear raging unchecked. He still refuses to drink, mouth pressed close, eyes determined, but Wes is more than a match for Angel's stubbornness. He runs two fingers along his arm, wetting them with blood, and brings them to Angel's mouth. Angel rears back, but Wes is unstoppable, moving closer and smearing the sticky fluid over his lips. Angel's tongue darts out thoughtlessly, reflexively. He licks at his lips until they are clean of blood and glistening with saliva. Wes pushes his fingers at Angel once more, ignoring the pleading eyes and trembling mouth, intent on getting Angel to feed. Angel holds fast against the sight and smell of blood, against the lingering tang of it on his tongue, but is unable to resist Wes' softly spoken plea. He gives in with a torturous moan, sucking Wes' fingers into his mouth, rolling his tongue around them, swirling saliva cleaning them. Wes closes his eyes against the sensation, every nerve in his body firing, sending spears of pleasure through his body. He pulls away from Angel, the vampire seems reluctant to let him go, sucking and nipping as he slips out. Wesley offers his slashed arm to Angel, smiling when Angel licks away the dripping blood, laughing when he begins to suck hungrily.

It can't happen if we don’t find him.

She'll talk. She has to.

Well, let's show our guest her new home.

Wes grabs a blanket and pillow and tosses them into the cage.

We don't want her too comfortable.

He reaches in and removes the pillow.

Better?

Better get a bucket.

Elena, that is wonderful! Loved it.

more V!Giles, as Spike goes over the convent wall to go play with the Knights

"My god, he's not," Joyce gasped.

Willow stared in horror. "He turned Spike loose . . ."

Xander stayed as low as he could and still fire over the wall. When he finished the clip, he hit the release and reached down for a new one. A quick-witted archer took advantage of his distraction, and he wasn't completely able to dodge. The arrow sliced across his left bicep, making him swear, but he swapped clips and fired back.

Willow shook her head and ran for the parapet. "Xander, stop it!"

"Get down from here, Willow!"

She took a breath to argue, then she got a glimpse over the wall. Spike was playing. Broken bodies marked his trail through the ranks of the soldiers. He was stalking General Gregor, who had pulled out his sword and was watching the vampire's progress as he exhorted the monks to pull themselves together after the backlash of Willow dispersing the shield in mid-attack.

A crossbowman leveled his weapon at Spike's back. Xander sighted carefully and shot the crossbow out of the man's hands. This brought another flurry of arrows towards Xander's position, which he ducked casually.

"Xander, please!" Willow yelled. She got a half-smile in return, the hyena smile, the condescending look that said she was dealing with things out of her league. "No, not this again."

As she moved, one of the monks pointed. "The Slayer's witch! She's the one." All the monks able to stand began chanting.

"I have had enough of you!" Willow yelled back. "Away!" She waved her hand, and all the monks went flying. "Spike! Get your butt back here!" Spike halted in mid-prowl to stare up at her in disbelief. Three archers took advantage of his motionlessness to take aim. Xander swore under his breath and brought the rifle around. Willow knocked the barrel down and pointed at the archers. "*Scindo*!"

All the strings on all the bows and crossbows snapped, sending parts flying everywhere. Spike ducked a potential stake, grinned, and moved towards the archers.

"Spike! I said get back up here!"

This time the glare was one of annoyance. "Or what!"

Xander saw Willow's hair whip around, which was very interesting considering there was no wind. And her eyes had gone a very frightening color. "I think you want to do what she says, Spike. Get back up here."

Spike hesitated, looked around at the potential victims wistfully, then shrugged. He jogged to the gate and climbed up the rough wood, then hopped onto the parapet, bloody and grinning, still in game face. "So, Red, playing with the heavy mojo, now, are we?" He stopped when she turned to glare at him.

"How many of them did you kill?"

He lost the grin but didn't back away. "I didn't keep count. Hardly my first. Won't be my last."

She glared over her shoulder. "Xander, how could you? Turning Spike loose on humans--"

But Xander didn't back down either. "Armed humans, used to these kinds of fights. Armed humans who put an arrow into Anya's back. I bet they've got spare bows and strings. Who are we going to let them put an arrow into next, Will? One of the nuns? Tara? Give me an option."

"I can stop them with magic, we don't have to keep hurting them."

Spike nodded over the wall. "Brother Maynard and his boys are getting back up. They're going to be ready for you next time. You didn't make any friends by tossing them aside. How are you going to stop them without hurting them?"

She looked out at the soldiers. They were already regrouping, salvaging equipment, getting the wounded and the dead out of the way. She could see Gregor and the monks consulting and glaring up at her. "There's got to be some way . . ."

"If you think of it, tell me." Xander went to one knee, taking deep breaths. "I'm all for options. Ow." He poked at his left arm and winced.

Spike crouched down. "How bad is it?"

"Just a scratch."

"I'm sure it is, John Wayne. I don't know how long the Monty Python Road Show will take to get their act back together. Get some rest while you can, I'll keep an eye on them."

Xander glared at him. "Aren't we the happy mother's helper all of a sudden. Your concern for my well-being makes me deeply suspicious."

"Look, whelp, you barely got any sleep last night, you drove all day, and tonight comes nowhere near the vicinity of restful. Sleep deprivation and automatic weapons aren't nearly as fun a combination as you'd think."

Xander studied him a few moments longer, then careful passed the rifle over. "You know how to use this?"

"I'm no stranger to firearms."

"OK. No potshots for fun."

"Spoil sport."

Xander sneered, then settled in against the wall and closed his eyes. Spike peeked over the wall to check the soldiers' progress back to threat potential before settling down himself. Willow looked at him suspiciously, until he grinned at her and began ostentatiously licking the drying blood from his hands. She sat down on the other side of Xander and fretted.

Oh, Elena, that's marvelous! One thing:

He looks up as Wesley enters the room - altered

don't you mean alerted?

Connie, dang woman, I love the voices, the scene, everything.

Better get a bucket.....

Oh, my.

The Resurrection Gambit

Part Thirteen: Time After Time

Elsewhere: One second Angel had been in Los Angeles, watching in horror as Drusilla emerged from the alley wearing the Aurelius Gem, the next, he was… elsewhere. He didn’t know where he was, but he knew it wasn’t Earth. The sky was littered with stars, but they formed no constellations he had ever seen. For a moment, he imagined they formed eyes and faces, but as soon as he focused on them, they were gone.

Drusilla was nearby, dancing to music that seemed to subliminally pulse from everywhere, slow and steady pulses of sound that must be just beneath any human range of hearing. Even he could barely perceive it. Spike stood next to him, and looked as confused as he did. The others were gone.

The next thing he noticed was that they weren’t standing on ground, exactly, so much as a large disc of solid light that floated in the abyss. He looked over the edge, and saw the tapestry of stars extended in all directions.

“Bloody Hell,” said Spike. “Where are we?”

“This is the place behind the metaphor,” said Drusilla. “This is the place the mirror wants to be.”

If Angel didn’t know better, he could have sworn that Drusilla sounded almost lucid there. He didn’t spend much time on the thought, because a light shimmered on the other side of the disc, from which five figures emerged.

Willow stepped forward. It had only been months since he last saw her, but she looked…older. Her hair was long and white, and she exuded an aura of power that eclipsed that of the girl he knew.

“Angel?” said a voice he instantly recognized, although it too sounded different.

“Buffy?” said Spike, beating Angel to the exclamation. “But you’re…”

The nimbus of light surrounding Willow subsided, and Angel could now see that Buffy and Faith were standing to Willow’s right. Both looked older, less girlish. Both seemed transfixed on him, as if they’d seen a ghost. To Willow’s left stood two hooded men, both of whom seemed familiar also, but whom he couldn’t get a clear look at. He realized that no one here had a scent, including himself.

“Sorry, guys,” said Willow. “This has to be confusing, I know, but we’ve got ourselves a situation, and you have to listen to me.”

“But what happened to you?” asked Angel. “To all of you?”

“An old friend gave me a head’s up that something’s wrong. You’re going to…”

“He is to be judged,” said the Juris, appearing in the air above and between the two groups. It looked down upon them appraisingly, and then turned its attention toward Willow.

“The natural order has been tilted,” it said, and the comment seemed squarely aimed at Willow. “You have no right to interfere in this.”

“Got you there, big guy,” said Willow. “This all started when I resurrected Buffy. Consequently, I get to be the gal to sort it out.” Willow turned her attention back to Angel. “Listen. Guys. You’re not going to remember this, at least, not consciously. I can’t do anything to change what’s happened. But both of you, when the time’s right, need to remember this much: It’s going to all go wrong.”

Spike and Angel looked stunned. An anger was visibly fuming on the Juris’s face.

The taller of the monks stepped forward, and Angel gasped as he realized who it was.

“Dad,” said Connor. “Remember this much. There is an order to things, and you can’t change that.”

“Connor?” said Angel, a sob building in his chest. “But you’re… I mean, when?”

“It’s OK, dad,” said Connor. “I make it through.”

“But,” said Angel, but Willow interrupted him.

“Angel, you’re going to do what you think you must, but you’ll be wrong. And it’ll end…” she trailed off. “Not good. Definitely not good.”

Willow looked weary. Angel looked at their faces, and began to understand.

“You are arrogant, Angelus,” said the Juris. “So sure of your righteousness, of your uniquity. You have lost both.”

“The fate of your kind rests with you two,” said Connor, nodding to Angel and Spike. When one of you falls, you will remember some of this, like a fading dream. Four tied to the Slayer hold the fates of all of them, but you and yours are not a jury. You are not Gods.”

“The Slayer line is fading,” said Willow. “And the time of vampires stands on a precipice. They will either wait out the tide, or be destroyed entirely. It’s all connected. The balance will assert itself as it must.”

“But there are other options,” said Connor.

The Juris descended to the disc and looked Willow in the eyes. Willow didn’t flinch.

“I give him ten years,” said the Juris. “I will take my daughter and remove her to a far-off place, safe from the abominations.”

The Juris took Drusilla by the hand, and in an instant, they were gone.

“I love you,” said Connor. “In the end, it will all be set right.”

Angel began to speak, but in a flash of white light, they were gone.

I knew there had to be a good reason for me to still be awake.

“This is the place behind the metaphor,” said Drusilla. “This is the place the mirror wants to be.”

Loved this!

This story keeps getting better.

Always glad to reward insomnia!

(and thanks.)