My mom always used to say "some people would kick if they was in swimming" which when I got around to asking her what the hell that meant is that some people live to criticize....

She was right, but do I care? Not enough to change word one.I expected it...not so fast though, and more about possible-underage sex or something than Zen.

Plei? Mmmmore. Ssssooon, pleeeease.

erika, to borrow a Penny phrase, ass her in the ear. What does she know, anyhow?

Cindy? Um. I really considered it. For a minute and a half. 90 whole seconds. I can't find any of their voices, not Buffy, not Ats. It makes me sad. I must drown my sorrows in more coffee.

Okay--here's my thirty (well, thirty-two) minute challenge. It was written in three bursts--seven minutes, four minutes, and 21 minutes.

"I always thought I'd be there beside her, you know?"

Wesley said nothing. He stared into his drink as if expecting some mystical wisdom to waft up from the glass of Oban.

"I mean, I was there from the beginning, helping her out—when I wasn't being her arch-enemy—loving her, being loved by her… And then there was that damned prophecy."

Having decided that the Scotch was better at killing a few unneeded brain cells than imparting wisdom, Wesley drained another glassful.

"Okay, so the vampire with a soul is supposed to play a big role in the Apocalypse and help out the Slayer. I kinda thought that would mean that I'd be there with the fighting and the struggling, and holding back the forces of evil, but nooo…."

If asked, Wesley would have to admit that he was only half-listening to Angel's rant, but even so, he knew exactly what Angel was going to say next.

"A delivery boy. All these prophecies, all these tests, all these trials, and what does this big important role end up being? A delivery boy. Hi, Buffy. How's the fight going? Ultimate evil causing a ruckus? Well it just so happens that I have this nifty little amulet… Well, you're welcome Buffy. Good luck, and maybe I'll see you again in another year or five."

"Prophecies rarely do work out the way one expects," Wesley said gently. He was tired. Just so fucking tired. He wanted to tell Angel to shut the hell up, but for some reason, he felt that he had no right to do so.

"But Spike?" Angel laughed and took another drink of his blood. The Wolfram & Hart commissary had been given strict instructions to give Angel only pig's blood, but Wesley had his suspicions. "That's what really gets me. All this business about the 'vampire with a soul' being the one to work with the Slayer to avert the Apocalypse. I can't stop thinking about it. What if Spike was the one the Powers intended to be there all this time? What if the only reason I went through everything I did was to draw attention away from the real vampire with a soul?"

Angel's fist left a splintered dent in the inlaid bar. Wolfram and Hart's decorators hadn't skimped on anything. Wesley suspected that the woodwork in the executive bar had knocked more than one species of exotic tree onto the endangered list.

Angel took a deep breath—reflex, thought Wesley—and forced himself to calm down. "I bet Spike doesn't lose his soul if he experiences perfect happiness," Angel muttered.

"Given that he's dead, I hardly think that matters anymore," Wesley pointed out.

"As far as we know, he's dead," said Angel. "Who knows what happened after Buffy left the Hellmouth. I mean, I came back from Hell. I don't think anyone was expecting that."

There was another of their long silences—most of their conversations seemed to be little more than heavy silence punctuated by the occasional rant—and Wesley poured himself another drink. Perhaps a nice 20 year old Port Ellen would have more of a Delphic quality and point him towards some kind of answer.

Meanwhile, Angel went back behind the bar and put another unit of blood into the microwave. The bartender knew that the Big Boss and the head of Prophecies and Research preferred to serve themselves and preferred to drink in solitude.

As far as Wesley knew, Gunn, Fred, and Lorne never visited the bar. Lorne and Fred were still in the throes kid-in-a-candy-shop euphoria over their new jobs. Gunn, for whatever reason, had become increasingly distant since they'd accepted the offer to run Wolfram and Hart.

After fifteen minutes of silence, Angel spoke again. This time, he looked directly at Wesley.

"Wes, is it possible that all this time I was just some kind of stalking horse? Is there anything in all those prophecies you've studied. Is there anything that says that I might not ever become human like they promised?"

Wesley put down his glass. It sounded much louder than he'd expected. "I don't know," he said. "As I have pointed out time and time again, prophecies rarely turn out the way one expects. You're better off not thinking about it if you can help it."

With no further word, Wesley left the bar and headed back to the library.

Loopholes. Hidden meanings. Allusions. Subtleties in translation. Contradictory sources. Corrupted texts. If being a prophet was difficult, then being an interpreter of prophecy was bloody well impossible.

Every time Wesley went to read one of the volumes of prophecy in the Wolfram and Hart library, he could hardly keep his hands from shaking. Every word he translated—even if it was from something simple like Latin, Sumerian, or Cretan Linear B—he second-guessed. What if he was wrong? What if he'd missed a nuance of declension or conjugation? What if he'd interpreted an idiom as something literal?

The reports he submitted to Angel or Fred were laden with footnotes pointing out this or that alternate interpretation, or noting places where he didn't feel comfortable with the way something was phrased. The cross-references alone took up over a third of each document.

He spent hours reading and re-reading each prophecy, trying to find out where he might have gone wrong. He would stay up well into the night, and then when he finally tried to go to sleep, sudden jolts of panic would jerk him awake.

If he drank, he could sleep, but the way he felt in the morning made it hardly worth the effort.

He wished he could remember what had happened, what had gone so terribly wrong that he no longer trusted his own intellect or training.

Sometimes, if he stared into his drink long enough, he could almost remember.

Wow, Anne. The last two lines gave me chills.

erika, since I told a few people to read your crossover I'm wondering if it's someone I recommend it to. If so, then I'm really sorry they sent you that.

I know of a couple of people who are really, really into Homicide.

Anne, that was great -- both the bitter-Angel and the Wes. Poor poor Wes.

No apologies needed. You should know me well enough to know I love to complain...it's the Munch in me. Bitter, curmudgeonly, the whole bit. And yet, still single.(unless Deb and Nic make an honest woman of me.) Don't worry...I was nice! To her(I'm guessing) face, anyways. I'll quit acting junior high now, before I leave a message in the cyberbathroom saying she does it with farm animals, or stuffs her bra.

Here's my 30-minute challenge, inspired by this week's Sunday 100. (look for an edited version there.)

"Rings" by Elisabeth [Xander/Spike friendship, early S7]

No one ever asked about the wedding rings.

Anya kept her engagement ring, of course. Carried it with her a lot of the time in a purse or pocket, once she became human again. Once Andrew caught her putting it on and holding her hand out in front of her to watch it glitter, and she jumped up suddenly and told him he'd be transfigured into a toad if he told Xander, or Buffy, or come to think of it anyone.

Andrew nodded. He was used to threats. Price of being a super-villain, he thought. I face my death each day, and fear nothing.

But the wedding rings? No one cared. Willow gave them back to Xander a few days after the wedding that wasn't. "I figured these were yours," she said. "Maybe you could use them as very small curtain rings? Or, um, convert them into mismatched hoop earrings? I hear that's all the rage." He didn't smile, and she quit talking and simply placed them into his upturned palm.

Anya's ring was simple, a slender gold band. Elegant. But Xander had some weird allergy to gold, so he went for sterling silver. It was that or platinum, and he didn't want to make Anya pay a couple hundred for something he'd probably drop into the foundation of some office building or cover with demon guts within a few months. The ring he chose was chunky, almost square, with a slim polished band around its center and a matte finish covering the rest. They'd had them engraved; Anya's said "you are my lover" and Xander's said "and you are my friend." No dates. Maybe I could con some other woman into wearing these someday, Xander thought. If I ever want to go through all this torture again. So he kept them, stuck in a tiny box stuffed underneath his socks. Looked at them once in a while and wondered what if.

Then Spike found them. Xander could tell something was up when he got home; the vampire had his special I'm-about-to-humiliate-someone look on his face.

"What is it, deadboy?"

Spike grinned. "See you're still attached to the vengeance demon. When did you reschedule the legal blessing? Figure I should be in the wedding party this time – after all, I already have the rings." He produced his hand from behind his back; the rings glimmered.

"Okay, Frodo. You found the rings," Xander said. "But why were you in my sock drawer? Tracking the dryer demon again?"

Spike looked peeved. "Couldn't find my own socks."

"What, so you wanted to steal mine? You already take my peanut butter and all of my good records."

"Oh, please. Unlike some people here, I have a sense of style."

"I do too have a sense of style! Nothing's wrong with-" Xander glanced at his ankles "-okay, maybe something's a little wrong with argyle, but most of my socks are just plain white athletic socks with red bands. They're a national tradition. I am manly, I wear manly socks. And anyhow, why would I want to steal your socks? Aren't you the criminal here."

"You're ignoring the point. The point is, you still want Anya. I'm obligated to tell her. It's my moral imperative."

"I didn't keep the rings for Anya. I kept them for me." Off Spike,s look, he added, "What, you got rid of everything to do with Drusilla and Harmony?"

"Every last doll, and every last copy of Seventeen," Spike said, nodding. "Clearly you can't say the same," he added, glancing at the Michael Bolton poster Anya had left on the wall and the stack of romance novels on top of the refrigerator.

"Hey, man, I gave back plenty," Xander said. "It's just … I'm still finding things, you know? Besides, I'm still not sure what I want to do with the rings."

Spike laughed. "Know a pawn shop that'll give you two hundred fifty quid for the pair. Shall we?"

Unable to stall, Xander grabbed his keys and followed the vampire out the door.