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.

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

purrrrrr

Thanks! When the first line popped into my head, the story was going to be about Angel. I'm not sure when it wound up becoming about Wes.

Anne, yours is *wonderful.*

I know mine is kind of terrible. (And I'm not just being a girl; it's really not that inspired.) It was still fun to write.

I think it's cute...nah, hate that word...um, charming?

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

Hee!

I thought the inscriptions were rather telling, as was Xander's allergy to gold (isn't silver traditionally a repellent of evil and demony type things?).

yep. Also, in my case a rash from faux-jewelry. Symbol of purity? Eh, two out of three ain't bad.

"Every last doll, and every last copy of Seventeen,"

BWAH! I like Xander's allergy to gold, too, Lyra.

Anne, yours was amazingly spot-on for Wes.

(deep breath)

Cindy made me do it. I have commited fic.

I cheated, a bit. I didn't keep exact track of time. It was 38 minutes when I looked up.

(popping in from Real World Publishing Hell to say I'm going to have to go back to read all this later. And Plei, I need to talk to you later - on AIM tonight, I hope, or by phone?)

And Bev, I'm jealous, your links work. Mine are like in Crawford with Commander Bunnypants Not because I'm that damn needy,(although "attention seeking behavior" has been associated with my name in a few reports in the past.) but to see if I can make this work, a link to my latest scene of my latest fic.

Saw the challenge. Wrote the challenge. I keep this up, and that Wesley/Xander story is going to get done sooner than I expected.

Buffy was pulled unjustly from heaven, from her own well-earned reward.

Angel was pulled mysteriously from hell, from his own ill-timed but pretty-well-deserved punishment.

The parallels were spookily obvious. Especially when Wesley finished translating that prophecy in Urdu that had been found bound inside the leather cover of a Victorian account book that he'd just happened to stumble across at a flea market in Encino. Why was he in Encino? Why was he at the flea market? Why that book?

Why anything? He'd stopped asking that question. The answers always hurt more than the questions.

After he finished the prophecy, he debating telling Angel, but there never seemed to be the right time to say, "By the way, Angel, the prophecy where you become human after helping save the world? I'd stop putting money aside on sunglasses if I were you."

Simply put, the prophecy said that the one torn from hell and the one torn from heaven would join and rule the world, and evil would not dare show it's face again. Sounded lovely, on the face of it. But he worried about that last phrase: "And the righteous shall have dominion, and none shall stand against them or challenge them, and the ones who have seen heaven and hell will judge all beings."

Righteous did not mean right, or fair, or tolerant, or even good. Wesley feared the dominion of the righteous far more than he feared the dominion of the evil, because evil could be bargained with. The righteous saw only the "one true path."

Still, he thought he had time before having to act. The prophecy spoke of an unknown seer, a visionary who saw the truth but who was scorned. Events would not come to pass until The One Who Sees sought out The One Who Knows. The only seer Wesley knew of was Cordelia, and no one scorned her who wanted to still have all the appendages they were born with.

Then there was that phone call in the middle of Halloween night. Wesley didn't recognize the man on the other end of the line, the man who was obviously frightened and in pain. But the man knew his name. "Wesley? Wesley Wyndam-Pryce?"

"Yes, this is he. It's one a.m. Who is this?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please don't hang up. This is Xander. Xander Harris."

"Xander? Why on earth are you calling me at this hour?"

"I had to. I don't know why, but I had to. There was this dream. This nightmare. Buffy was-- and Angel was there and--and when I woke up all I could think of was 'Call Wesley, he knows.'"