Hmm.Yes, he knows what he's missing.I could write that. I just thought I would start with Angelus, Taunting Bastard. And I believe I will take a break from it for a few hours myself(not that I haven't ever, but I have kind of been eating and sleeping this. See what I mean? Bayliss. )But this evening, I'll bet I come up with something. I will have plenty of time. No love life and a mom who anticipates " America's Most Wanted" on Saturday nights...we both need more hobbies, stat.

Humans have the wrong picture of vampiric life, Angelus thinks. And yes, for the first fifty years, he did a lot of basking. In late nights, inhuman strength and freedom from the pox. It was a simple life. Bloody, but simple. But one wriggling, begging human is very like another one(although he still would make an exception for the pale brown-eyed one...the darker one would never have a fledgling's proper respect for authority.) What the humans called depravity and serial murder was mostly a quest for stimulation, with breaking Drusilla's mind representing his greatest living(or unliving) project.
He still curses the day he ran into the Romany wench, not so much because of the leash the regenerated soul places on his impulses, but because the soul feels so present even in its absence. It is not enough to feed and sleep beside another cold body. The emptiness cries out for newer, more vivid, cruelty.

Mmm. I love the last paragraph, erika.

Also, the idea of Vamp!Tim is wibbleworthy in the extreme.

Really? I used to be a hearts-and flowers girl once. Honestly. Now, I'm deeply corrupted. And gonna find and beat up a sloppy fic writer somewhere who wrote as Tim and gave Adena the wrong name. No way! He'll remember her name when he's forgotten his name.I know I'm a rookie who never finishes, but I could still take her.(And I think I sound snobbish, controlling, and adversarial.But I'm right, damn it. How hard is it?)And apparently, the words only come when I'm taking time from something else...make me feel guilty. Do I owe any of you a thank you note?

When You Are Tired of London

Part Six: Giles’ Morning

There should be, thought Giles, a limit to just how many times one should stop to ogle shoes when investigating mysterious threats from, allegedly, beyond the grave. Of course, he knew that expressing the illogic of stopping at every shop in Knightsbridge would in no way be a deterrent to Buffy, so instead he just rolled his eyes and took comfort in her, relative, restraint.

“What?” said Buffy, at the look on his face, “It was only a couple stops. It’s not like I’m making you carry them. Unless, of course, you wanna?”

“Buffy, you’re superhumanly strong and have endurance that by far surpasses that of any normal human being. You can carry your own fashion accessories.”

Buffy sighed. “No chivalry for the superhero.”

“You seem much more…giddy… than you usually do on a mission.”

Buffy smiled. “Well, we don’t usually end up anywhere… nice. It’s usually, ‘Ooooh, you go trek through the spooky graveyard, I’ll go crawl through the smelly sewers!’ There won’t be sewers, will there?”

“I don’t believe so, no. Moral cesspools, perhaps.”

“You really don’t like your cousin, do you” Which is weird because, identical?”

“WE ARE NOT….I mean, there’s no… I have better posture.”

Buffy gave him her best, winning smile.

“Whatever.”

Giles didn’t bother to hide his annoyance, but relief overtook him when he found the gallery he was looking for. It was one of those “contemporary” galleries, where—and he was quite certain of this—those bearing too much money and too little taste purchased formless sculptures as part of an elaborate practical joke perpetrated by the city’s artistic elite. He entered, and Buffy followed.

He didn’t see his quarry, and Buffy became seemingly hypnotized by a stack of precariously perched bronze rectangles that, he was quite certain, symbolized the existential angst of the Labour Party or some such silliness.

“Hmm,” said a voice from behind them. “Makes you long for the days when art meant something, doesn’t it? When form and expression could touch some deep recess of the soul.”

Giles and Buffy turned to see a large, older black man smiling at them.

“Rupert Giles,” said the man, seizing his hand enthusiastically. “Good to see you, you old dog.”

Much to Buffy’s surprise, Giles seemed oddly cheered.

“Buffy, this is the man I came to meet, Patrick. Patrick, this is my colleague, Buffy Summers.”

Patrick gently took her hand and kissed it.

“Very pleased to meet you, Ms. Summers, although why a beautiful young woman like you is wasting her time parading around with this old man, is beyond me.”

Buffy giggled, but then quickly glanced to see if Giles was perturbed. He wasn’t, so she went back to letting herself enjoy the attention.

“I thought you said all of James’ friends were roustabouts?”

“Gadabouts. And they are. It’s just that Patrick’s the only likeable one in the bunch.”

“Well I won’t argue with that,” said Patrick, grinning broadly. “But you sounded rather urgent on the phone.”

“That’s my cue,” said Buffy. “Gotta motor.”

“I thought your appointment wasn’t until later,” said Giles.

“Much later,” said Buffy. “Hours. But there are shoes longing to be free now, and only I can save them. Giles, it’s my sacred duty. Nice meeting you, Patrick. Bye!”

And with that, Buffy left.

“Spunky girl, Rupert. A bit young for you, isn’t she?”

“Nothing like that,” said Giles, who found himself relaxing a bit for the first time since the day before. “She’s more like…”

“A daughter?”

“Perhaps. But enough about me.”

“Yes, you said James had been receiving threats. What kind of threats?”

“They were…” Giles struggled for the delicate way to phrase it. “They were evidently voices of doom from beyond the grave.”

“Really?” said Patrick. “How terribly exciting, although I must say I’m a bit disappointed it was James and not me. I’ve been dabbling in the occult for years, and haven’t seen a thing.”

“Dabbling in the occult, you say?”

“Why, yes,” said Patrick, quite proudly. “It’s all the rage in London. I know every medium between here and Surrey.”

“That’s not terribly far.”

“Not really, no. I’m working on expanding.”

Giles laughed, gently.

“So. Did James have any dealings with Mediums, or… or the occult, or any such thing?”

“James? I should think not. If it doesn’t make you money and you can’t stick your Willie in it, he loses attention right quick.”

“Yes,” said Giles, coolly. “He’s not very deep, is he?”

“No,” said Patrick. “He really isn’t. Of course, if he was messing with the ‘forces of darkness,’” he said, putting on his best melodramatic voice, “It’s only because he’s always wanted to emulate you.”

“Me?” said Giles, shocked. “Surely you’re joking.”

“Not at all. James has always looked up to you. He started smoking because you did. Bought his first Velvet Underground album because you liked them. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if all of the stupid, juvenile things he’s done with his life had been a vain attempt to emulate you.”

Giles was floored by this thought.

“But I…. I grew out of all that.”

“Not the Velvet Underground, surely?”

“Well, no, not that, but the rest….”

“And not the occult, either, I take it?”

“It’s not like it used to be,” said Giles, defensively. “I have… responsibilities.”

“Right,” said Patrick. “So you’ve grown up, gotten responsible, and you’re still cooler than he’ll ever be.”

“Well, I don’t know about…. Well, all right. But his… follies… are his own making.”

“Agreed. Never meant to insinuate otherwise. But still, I find it odd that you’re up here chasing some ghost on his word.”

Giles furrowed his brow.

“He’s family,” he said. “I don’t much like the prat, but I couldn’t not help. Not when I could make a difference.”

When You Are Tired of London, Part Six--Continued

“And that,” said Patrick, “Is where he can never be confused for you.”

Patrick rose and wandered over to a painting of various orange circles on a purple background.

“Not much emotional resonance in this, is there?” asked Patrick. “Not much feeling.”

“No,” said Giles, “There really isn’t. Just so much color contrast meant to catch the eye. There’s no depth to it.”

Patrick smiled and looked surprised when he turned toward Giles.

“Why, James,” said Patrick. “I see you’ve picked up a thing or two about art.”

“What?” said Giles, confused. “Patrick, it’s me.”

“Yes, I know. You who’ve never shown even the slightest interest in painting before. I knew you’d get something from these outings eventually. Come, let’s grab some lunch.”

Patrick began to walk toward the door, and Giles, bewildered, followed after him.

Very nice Victor. I really want to see where this all ends up.

A few minor edit suggestions:

“Very pleased to meet you, Ms. Summers, although why a beautiful young woman like you is wasting her you parading around with this old man, is beyond me.”

Wasting her time parading?

You also have 2 unneeded quotation marks.

And with that, Buffy left.”

Giles, bewildered, followed after him.”

Hmmmm, she said. Intriguing. Loving the last bit, Patrick "confusing"? Giles with James.

You've got a few stray quotation marks, after And with that, Buffy left." and the last line, Giles, bewildered, followed after him."

Also loving the "said all his friends were roustabouts."

"Gadabouts."

Echoes the "what's a stevedore?" line.

More, please, sir!

erika, keep it coming. Angelus with his vivid new cruelties....dayum.

Victor, this is beyond fun.

“Hmm,” said a voice from behind them. “Makes you long for the days when art meant something, doesn’t it? When form and expression could touch some deep recess of the soul.”

Oh, that's such perfect Patrick. I could hear that wonderful purr of a voice when I read it.

melts.

More please.