taunters.

Hey, my Hubby's giving me fic ideas! He's trying to tell me to keep it and do a spec script, and I'm telling him that the odds of ME buying a script from a total unknown are pretty slim.

Anyway, the religion discussions of earlier today started it, with MM's musing on Jesus as the undead: Religious fanatic gets turned, wakes up a bit later and thinks he's Jesus, returned from the dead. Angel has to deal with it. "You can't walk on water". "I'm just back from the grave, give me a bit to get my bearings, OK? And only mockers demand signs and miracles." "OK, crosses repel you." "The sign of my crucifixion! An instrument of torture! Of course it repels me." "Sunlight?" "My Father wants me to bring people into the light, if I try to return to Him too soon he burns me. If people drink of my blood, they will live forever. How can I not be the savior?"

Any takers on the fic bunny? Hubby's pleased with himself and his knowledge of obscure religious facts.

When You Are Tired of London

Part Three: Xander’s Day

For many Americans, the prospect of driving on the wrong side of the road was the most daunting thing to adjust to in England. Xander, on the other hand, was enraptured by it. With the exception of a few brief forays through various Hell dimensions, and an only-somewhat less dangerous cab ride through Tiajuana, this was his first time outside the United States, and he was enjoying every second of it.

Well, enjoying might not be the right word, but the change of scene kept his mind from lingering on the past, and that was something. Plus, he’d get to see the unaired episodes of Firefly, which was a plus.

“Sometimes,” he thought, “It’s the little things.”

But London? He’d fallen in love with London from the get-go. Where Buffy and Willow would crinkle their noses at the little fish and chip stands in Leicester Square, he found himself drawn to them. He amassed albums by bands whom he thought he had every album by. He spent hours taking advantage of the National Library reader’s card that Giles had acquired for him, and when his brains were about to explode from too much research, he’d walk around the corner to the two-story science fiction and comic book store.

There was always a voice in the back of Xander’s head, whispering how much he’s lost. But here, so far from Sunnydale, he realized there was a world for him to explore, and he loved it.

Today, however, there was a mystery, and a pricey looking Kensington flat.

Xander brushed aside the shrubbery outside to peer through the window as Willow fumbled with the keys. They weren’t sure exactly what they were expecting, but James’ flat was rather tasteful and sparse. Willow walked to the center of the living room, and then glanced about, as though she were looking for something. Xander began picking though James’ things.

“Huh,” said Xander, examining the large CD collection. “Sheryl Crow, Michael Bolton. Eek!” he recoiled from the CD rack. “Celine Dione! It’s criminal, I tell you. Surround sound, monolithic speakers, and a music collection as large as Giles’ with none of the taste. No wonder Giles hates him.”

“We’re supposed to be working here, Xander, not critiquing.”

“I’m working, I’m working. It’s just that… If Giles hates his cousin so much, then why is he helping him?”

“Who knows,” said Willow. “The ways of family are mysterious and strange.” She then took on a more serious demeanor. “But there’s definitely something here. There’s a lingering after-trace of etheric disturbance.”

“I love when you talk like that,” said Xander. “But it’s gone, right?”

“Uh-huh,” said Willow, confused. “How’d you know?”

“Deduction, my dear Dr. Watson,” said Xander, walking up to a side window. “This window’s obviously been jimmied open.”

“How can you tell?” asked Willow.

“Because there’s metal scrapes on the ledge, and the guy who owns this apartment doesn’t let things like that happen without getting them fixed immediately. Also, the jimmy’s in the shrubbery outside.”

“Oh. So then, somebody’s broken in. And stolen something.”

“That would be my guess,” said Xander. “Time to split up?”

“’Fraid so, great detective,” said Willow. I get the ex-wife, you get the ‘decking king.”

“How do you become the King of Decking, anyway?” asked Xander, as they parted company.

The answer came a few hours and quick detour past the comic book store later, as he stood on the absolutely most gorgeous handmade enclosed deck and swimming pool he’d ever seen.

“This is nice craftsmanship,” said Xander, admiringly. “This was all done by hand?”

“Well, I had some blokes install the pool,” said Gary, “but yeah. This one’s my baby, it is. I always say, if you going to build for other people, build your best work for home.”

There was a brief pause, as both Gary and Xander stopped to admire the woodwork.

“Right, so, I got James’ call. You’re a friend of his, then?”

“Friend of the family,” said Xander, casually. The two of them settled down at a table near the pool, where a couple of beers had been thoughtfully left for them.

“I’m looking into some matters for him,” Xander continued.

Gary looked concerned.

“Not any trouble, is it?”

“Well,” said Xander, “There’s been a couple threats, and my associates and I are trying to find out if there’s anyone who’d, well, have a grudge against him.”

“Against James? Not likely. I mean, nicest bloke I know. Always there for his mates.”

“Anyone owe him any money?”

“Well, lots of people…”

“I see, and is there anyone who’d feel… jealous of him?”

“Bloody Hell. With all the birds he nails, who wouldn’t? I mean, you should see him in action. Different girl every night, and sometimes… Wait, you’re not saying I’m the one threatening him, are you?”

“No, no, not at all,” said Xander, who inwardly was amazed at how much control he had over the situation.

“Right, cause that’s a load of bullocks if you are. James is my mate, and I’d never hurt a hair on his head. Don’t care how many models he parades in front of me, even with a dodgy wanker!”

“Whoah!” said Xander, “Too much information!” He placed a comforting hand on Gary’s shoulder. “We’re just gathering information. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Gary looked relieved.

“So,” said Xander. “What kind of sander did you use on the floorboards?”

Plus, he’d get to see the unaired episodes of Firefly, which was a plus.

I love you.

And I love Carpenter!Xander.

Thanks, Elena.

Strange that I'm always drawn to writing Xander. At first, he wasn't even going to be in this story, except for maybe in cameos, but now I've got him plotted all the way through.

He's just too much fun, I guess.

Very nice Victor. I like your Xander a lot, so I'm glad he ended up in the story.

I find Xander very easy to write. I understand him, and he speaks in my brain... Yeah, I know, not so very normal, but at least he gets dialogue if only in my head.

Heh. Victor, one question: where in heaven's name did you find little fish and chip stands in Leicester Square? In all my years living in London, the nearest I ever found was up Wardour Street, past the Swiss Centre, near all the strip joints and sex shops, and they're all gone and replaced with Thai food and whatnots.

(I miss old London, damnit.)

Seriously, though - is this recent?

Vamp!Lex never looks up Dear Old Vamp Dad?

Spike, you mean? Not in this fic, it seems, no. And I'm not writing a sequal, never.

Plus, he’d get to see the unaired episodes of Firefly, which was a plus.

Victor, you wonderful, wonderful man! grovels on floor, wonders what is appropriate to sacrifice

No wonder Giles hates him”

Full stop needed there? (Not that I'm critiquing or anything.)

“No, no,” not at all,”

And you've got one too many sets of speech marks there.

I love your carpenter!Xander, being all knowing and in control and stuff. And while I have to admit that I haven't seen fish-and-chip stands in London (hot dog in a bun stands, yes, there's almost always one outside the British Museum, but fish-and-chips are normally, I think, a shop thing), it's nice that Xander loves London.

Seriously, though - is this recent?

Not at all certain, to tell the truth. I'm ten years out of my London days myself. (Indeed, I suspect this whole story is a bit of repressed "home sickness" for London.)

But as to the F&C stands in Leicester Square, I'm not sure "stand" is the right word. There are two of them, that I can see in my head clear as day--one right next to a kebab stand (and, to be fair, each actually kind of down the street a bit from Leicester Square.) They're those little places that are kind of shallow into the storefronts--you can't really go more than a few feet in. You just walk up, order yourself a cod, and leave. Is there a phrase for that?