Auto-archiving is a good idea, but do we want to consider keeping it so that only we can archive?

Also -- for any auto-system, please make sure you run the tech reqs by me before we get too deep into discussion, so we can make sure we meet them.

do we want to consider keeping it so that only we can archive?

Oh, right, sorry, I thought that was implied. If we were to do auto archiving (which to be honest would save me a lot of work) it would be hidden, only accessible to those who actually post in Bitchfic.

Also -- for any auto-system, please make sure you run the tech reqs by me before we get too deep into discussion, so we can make sure we meet them.

yup. I'm just getting a feel for the mo.

only accessible to those who actually post in Bitchfic.

Hmm ... how does one regulate that? Because hidden != protected, and protected's safer.

Well, offhand, just not posting the link publicly. Or doing something like sequestering the upload posting interface behind a pass-protected directory, similar to what shrift does with that-which-does-not-exist.

Um, not that Giles actually speaks to me in my head. You know what I mean.

He doesn't? So, this is abnormal? Huh.

Revisiting a story I started months ago. Set during Season 7, and liable to conclude a little while after it, but I'm running into difficulties: namely, I didn't see all of Season 7, so I'm liable to wobble away from canon in terms of mood and plot, I fear. Please to help.

* * *

The girls kept arriving, hollow-eyed and jumpy, like they were the tattered remnants of the Rebel forces and someone had declared 1630 Revello Drive a sun-drenched suburban version of Yavin's fourth moon. The house was filling fast, and the more of them arrived, the lonelier Andrew felt. It was like school all over again, only worse, if that was possible, because this was it, 24/7, no escape, and all his books and carefully labelled videos and the mint condition figurines, and all the magazines and fanzines and Top Trumps sets and all the things that mattered were gone.

And Warren was gone.

And it kept on not getting any better.

* * *

It was kind of ironic, how things turned out. He hadn't really expected to get to hang out with The Slayer, although when Jonathan talked about it Andrew had sometimes found himself swept along wistfully in his wake and had almost forgotten about The Plan. But here he was, with The Slayer and The Wicked Witch of the West and, and - and really, they ought to have a proper name, like the Superfriends, or the Justice League, or The Uncanny X Men, or something. The Stake Team, maybe. Or the Bat Pack, or, well, something. They didn't seem to understand that there were precedents, there were Ways Things Should Be Done. Although Buffy was pretty good at being the leader, he had to admit, even without having a cool uniform or gadgets or any of that stuff. He could see why they followed her. Still, Andrew occupied his mind part of the time with trying to design a cool outfit for The Slayer, and he was wondering how to broach the subject with one of the Slayer Wannabes, get them to plan ahead. Maybe even explain to them how useful it would be to have a sidekick who could raise demons and had some first-hand experience of Evil Genius-hood.

If any of them would just talk to him.

* * *

He almost missed Mexico, and who knew that that was even possible? But the thing about Mexico was that they were supposed to be outsiders, and so the reason they didn't belong was because they were foreign, rather than freaks. In a weird way they got extra coolness points just for being American. Although the locals still hated them, of course - but the thing was that it was like they'd chosen to be alone. It was almost a relief, although he hardly noticed it at the time, because everything else was so awful. Nothing had prepared them for it, and he'd never felt so exposed and vulnerable in his life before. It was filthy, and hot, and his skin was burned to a crisp straight away, and he was allergic to just about everything, and he hated hated hated Jonathan, who actually spoke some Spanish and kind of blended in, being all short and dark and annoying. Andrew spoke six demon languages fluently and he knew enough Kankanath and Fyaral to get by, but his Spanish was lousy and everyone took advantage of him, like he had "Hi, I'm American, Please Rip Me Off" tattooed on his forehead. The days were hideous and the nights were worse, torn between conscious terrors and broken nightmares of what Willow had become, and what she would do to them when she finally found them. And what she had done to Warren.

He woke up crying a lot.

The first time he saw Warren again, he thought his heart would burst with relief.

Now he was surrounded by English speakers again, back in Sunnydale, and everything was worse than ever. He'd never been so alone in his life.

He missed Jonathan, and he hadn't really expected that. It wasn't like they were friends, exactly. Not really. Not like him and Warren. God, he missed Warren. Warren was the first thing he thought of when he woke up and the last thing he thought of when he went to sleep. Warren would totally have come back for him if Willow hadn't gone all Terminator. They'd had a special understanding, like - like Starsky and Hutch, or Kirk and Spock, or Luke and Han; and Han wouldn't ever really leave Luke to handle Vader on his own, not ever. Warren wouldn't have abandoned him. Maybe Jonathan, because Jonathan was annoying and he didn't really believe in Warren. But he would totally have come back for Andrew. That's why it seemed so logical when he did.

Although, as it turned out, he didn't after all.

And now even Jonathan was gone, which was his fault, and the worst of it was that there was nobody to get stuff. Except Xander, who was quite a lot bigger than Andrew had realised - but he was rebuffing every hopeful overture Andrew made, and pretending that he didn't know the Batman from the Man-Bat.

Andrew got knots in his belly thinking about Jonathan. But it wasn't like it was his fault, not really. Warren had said - only it wasn't Warren, he had to stop thinking it was Warren - the First Evil had said that Jonathan would go to a better place and thank him later, and that it was all part of The Plan. Andrew had felt - needed. Important. Valued.

Loved.

And it had all been a lie. Some evil ghost thing was just playing him, and Warren really was dead and gone and not coming back. And now so was Jonathan.

"I need to pee."

He wasn't whining, because Evil Geniuses didn't whine. Not even former Evil Geniuses. But his bladder hurt, and the ropes chafed, and his ass was numb, and he hadn't brushed his teeth or bathed or changed his underwear in nearly three days, and everyone was being mean to him. And he'd recently been dragged through a wall backwards by a vampire and felt its cold lips close over his throat and then the sudden, sharp pain of pierced skin and suction before Buffy intervened; it was kind of like getting a hickey, only about a gazillion times more terrifying. Not that he'd ever gotten a hickey. And Warren was dead, and Jonathan was dead, and they were both hanging out somewhere watching all this and laughing, like Obi Wan and Vader with all their enmity forgotten. So there might have been just a little hint of a whimper in his voice. Maybe. But there was totally no call for Xander to look at him like he'd just crawled out from under a rock. Xander wasn't even a superhero. He didn't have any special powers at all. Although he had dated a demon, which was - different. Andrew hadn't ever done that - although he'd seen some pictures in one of Tucker's old demonology books that had made him wonder whether maybe - but that ritual was really difficult, and after the third time he'd tried it there was still no succubus, and the scorch marks and chicken blood on the mattress had been kind of hard to explain to his mom.

"Please?" Okay, so possibly that was a whimper. But it had been a really lousy couple of days.

Xander rolled his eyes in disgust.

"You're pathetic, you know that? I mean, really pathetic." But he stepped closer and Andrew breathed a huge sigh of relief when he felt the knots being untied.

"Thank you! We men have to stick together, brothers in arms, both being from Mars not Venus and - "

"Andrew?"

"Mmm?"

"Shut up."

"But I -- right. Yes. I can do strong and silent, like James Bond, or like Princess Leia in "Episode IV", when Vader tried to get the information out of her using torture, but obviously it didn't work because -- oh. Right. Sorry."

It kept surprising him how big Xander was. He didn't remember Xander Harris being big, but he had really broad shoulders, almost like Riker or somebody. Sturdy. He'd put on a lot of muscle since high school. And eaten a few too many pizzas, maybe, but he looked pretty good on it, actually. Not that Andrew was thinking about this, 'cause, hello, once bitten, twice shy, and in Sunnydale biting was a serious matter.

He followed Xander quietly up the flight of stairs to the bathroom and tried not to stare at Xander's ass.

"So is it true you were once a male stripper?" asked Andrew when they reached the landing. Xander stopped so suddenly that Andrew walked straight into him, and then jumped back as if burnt, and was only prevented from falling down the staircase by Xander's hand closing lightning-fast over his wrist. Andrew stared, his eyes huge, and realised -- really realised on a visceral level, rather than just in the abstract -- that Xander Harris had been fighting vampires for nearly seven years, and still wasn't dead. And he had the reflexes to prove it. And, okay, maybe Xander was the sidekick, but still. Seven years.

"Your mouth is open again, Andrew," Xander said evenly, pulling him back onto the landing. "I can tell because these sounds keep coming out of it."

"No need to be so touchy," said Andrew, and then wished he hadn't. "Right. I'll be in the bathroom, then." He stepped inside and paused in the doorway, waiting for Xander to walk away."Okay. Thanks for that." He gave Xander a weak grin and felt it melt away like a cheap icecream on a hot day under the force of Xander's glower. Xander leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms. "No need to wait. Please."

"What, I'm going to let you scramble out the window so you can run around playing Buffy's Arch Nemesissy all over again? Doing whatever The First tells you? I don't think so, geekboy. You're a nuisance, but I'd rather you were being a nuisance right here where we can see you than have you running around nuisancing where you might accidentally cause some real trouble."

"But -- but can't you just wait downstairs?" asked Andrew unhappily. "Please? I've learned my lesson, really I have. I'll not run away, or, you know, summon any hellspawn or anything. Really. I just want to pee."

"So go pee," said Xander unsympathetically, very much not moving. Andrew shifted miserably from foot to foot.

"But you're gonna be right here. Listening. I can't go if you're listening," explained Andrew in a rush. Xander leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes."

"Oh for -- fine. Fine. Go pee. Then get your useless skinny ass downstairs, or else I'm going to come in and get you."

"Okay! Okay, all right already. Thank you. Thanks. Bye."

"Hey, these are good." Xander sounded surprised. Andrew, who had been foraging for more ingredients, glanced over his shoulder and nodded. "I won the Junior Prize for Baking," he said breezily. Not being tied up felt wonderful, and Andrew had been doing his best to make himself invaluable about the house ever since he was officially untied and given free rein a week earlier. Not that Buffy or any of her gang seemed to appreciate it very much, but he knew that if they gave him long enough they'd find themselves unable to cope without him. "Well, technically second prize, but Mary Anne Schwartz totally cheated and the prize would definitely have been mine if her aunt hadn't been on the voting committee. I was robbed."

"You're doing that talking thing again," pointed out Xander, but then he noticed the crockery Andrew had piled up beside the sink. "Oh! Hey, cookie dough! Let me help you out with that." Xander seized the bowl and a cookie dough-smeared spoon and set about the important task of scraping the bowl clean and licking up all the remnants of cookie goodness.

"Mmm," agreed Andrew, looking distractedly at the smudge of chocolate on the corner of Xander's mouth and having some very specific and unwise thoughts that did not relate to cooking. Xander glanced up and caught his eye.

"What?" he said defensively, although it sounded rather more like "Mmwmph?" through the raw cookiedough.

"Nothing. Just -- were you really a male stripper?" blurted Andrew. "After we graduated from High School?" Xander's eyes widened slightly, caught unawares. Andrew licked his lips reflexively as he glanced back down at the little chocolate smear. He found himself wondering again what it was like, having a demon lover. Probably quite -- tiring. Um. And educational. Probably.

"Packs of rabid hellbeasts would not get me to discuss that summer," said Xander firmly. He did look slightly red, Andrew thought, but it could have been the lighting. "Not even rabid hellbeasts wielding guns. Big guns." Andrew considered explaining that hellbeasts generally weren't big fans of technology, but on reflection Xander probably knew that already, and was trying to distract him. Besides, Andrew was still kind of preoccupied with the stripping thing.

"So it is true, then? Huh. Who -- uh -- who was in the audience? Was it, like, all girls? Or was it a mixed crowd?" Andrew could feel himself blushing as he squeezed washing up liquid into the sink. He tried to sound casual. "Or, or was it all guys? And what kind of things --" The screech of a stool being shoved away from a counter was followed by the sound of hurriedly departing Xander feet. Andrew pouted. "Hey, come back!" he yelled, without very much hope. "I've still got cookies!"

* * *

"I don't see why we couldn't go along," said Andrew. "It's not like the other girls have special powers. I don't see why we couldn't go along to the cemetery and help with the whole training thing."

"It's Slayer stuff," Xander replied, fiddling with the remote. Andrew thought about this for a moment, carefully picking the olives off his slice of pizza and laying them in a tidy line on the plate.

"But you've slayed loads of vampires," he said after a while. "Slain. Slayed. Turned into dust." He took a mouthful of pizza and gazed at Xander. It was pretty impressive, really. Seven years of fighting demons without being the Chosen One or a witch or anything - just a regular guy. Like the Batman. Only more of a white trash Batman, maybe. Without the tights or the mask. But still -- kind of cool, when you thought about it.

"Yeah. Well, looks like they just wanted to have a girls' night out this time, or something." Xander looked kind of pissed, actually.

"But they took Spike along," pointed out Andrew. Xander's scowl deepened. "Of course, he's like a formerly evil Supervillain, kind of thing, so he's got insight into how a Supervillain's brain works. But so have I! I don't see why I couldn't go along."

"Because you're a pain in the ass, Andrew," snapped Xander, punching the remote and staring at the screen as it flickered from scene to unsatisfactory scene. Andrew pulled a face at him, but decided to overlook the insult. He took another mouthful of pizza and reviewed the day's events in his mind.

"Faith's really cool," he announced. "She's just -- she's really, really cool. Yoda cool. Ripley cool."

"If by cool you mean psychotic, then, sure," said Xander, staring at him balefully from across the living room. "But then I guess that gets her extra bonus cool points in the Andrew Bumper Book of Cool, right? You're just all over these crazy murderous apocalypse-causing types, aren't ya?"

Andrew bridled. "That's not fair! She's seeking redemption, Xander. Like me." His voice took on a wistful tone. "She's a tragic and noble figure fighting for truth, justice and, and, and the Slayer way, but dogged by, by doubters and nay-sayers who want to hold her past mistakes against her."

"Sure. Right. And Adolph Hitler was a sweet little guy with a funny moustache who loved puppies."

"You just don't understand the pain of the rocky road to redemption," announced Andrew. He was startled when Xander sprang out of his chair, stalked across the room and leaned right down into his face, one hand clutching the back of the couch on either side of Andrew's head. Andrew swallowed hard and pressed himself as far back into the couch as he could go. Xander looked thoroughly pissed.

"Now let's get this clear," said Xander, his voice shaking slightly. "You aren't wanted here, Andrew. You aren't our friend. You aren't part of the gang. And you aren't some noble soul on the rocky road to redemption. You're a sad, pathetic little excuse for a man with nothing - nothing - to contribute to the team. You just follow along doing what people tell you. You're not special. You're not brave. You're not heroic. You're just a follower, and that's all you'll ever be. And you can't even get that right. And you don't know anything about Faith. Nothing. You're just a waste of space. You're just here to bake the stupid cookies and tell the stupid stories and get in everyone's way. Your screw-ups get people killed. Why the hell would anyone in their right mind trust you? You're -- you're a Zeppo, that's what you are. Useless. Nothing."

Andrew blinked into angry brown eyes a scant few inches away and picked nervously at the fabric of his sweater. After a long moment Xander -- who really was quite a big guy, Andrew was realising -- backed off and stalked into the kitchen.

Andrew stared blankly at the TV screen. His half-eaten pizza slice had fallen cheese-side down onto the couch. He carefully picked it up again, laid it on the plate and felt around for the scattered olives, and he didn't burst into tears.

I like this a lot, Fay. It's very good. Would it be at all helpful to tell you that they weren't so sure of Buffy's leadership skills by the end of Season 7?

he squeezed washing up liquid into the sink

We'd probably say dishwashing detergent, at least, I do.

"I don't see why we couldn't go along," said Andrew. "It's not like the other girls have special powers.

Instead of other girls, maybe no "other" unless he relates to the girls, which would make it a funny freudian slip that Xander might catch.

I like this. It's a good story. There's more, yes?