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.'"

"Oh god." He thought he'd have more time. Of course, All Hallow's Eve. The turning of the year, when the veil between worlds is thinnest. The dividing night between new and old years in the oldest calendars. "What did you see?"

There was silence from Sunnydale. "You--you believe me. Dammit, I was hoping you'd call me nuts and call Giles and complain about me bothering you. Why do you believe me?"

"I have my reasons. What did you see?"

"Buffy and Angel. Together, giving a speech. They were holding hands and smiling in this really sickly televangelist way, and everyone was smiling back at them and nodding. And they were telling people that anyone who disagreed with them was the enemy and needed to be stopped, and it was for everyone's own good--and people believed them! They were burning people, Wes! There was a whole apartment building, and Angel set it on fire, and Buffy just watched him, smiling like he just brought her roses and chocolate! Mass graves. She stabbed Giles. She was crying, but she did it anyway. Please, Wes, tell me it was the nachos I had before bed. Tell me I'm crazy. I want to be crazy."

"I'm sorry, Xander."

"You're not saying I'm crazy."

"No. I wish you were."

He spoke of the prophecy he'd found, of the two who had known heaven and hell who would come to rule the earth in the name of righteousness, of The One Who Sees and The One Who Knows. He pretended not to notice when Xander began crying.

"What do we do?" Xander finally whispered.

He was the ruthless one, the one who saw the necessities and performed them. "Either Buffy or Angel need to die."

He was not surprised when the phone in Sunnydale was slammed down in his ear. He hung up his own phone and rubbed his temples, fighting tears of his own. Two minutes later, the phone rang again.

"I can't do it," Xander said very quietly. "I'm sorry, but I saved her life. I can't take it away. Oh, god, was I supposed to let her die there in the Master's cave? Then she died again, and we brought her back. Dammit, the universe was trying to stop this, and we kept bringing her back."

"Xander, stop. This prophecy needs Angel, too, and the Powers That Be brought him back from Hell. We can't second-guess ourselves. If we keep trying to think through everything, we'd never do anything."

"So. Angel. Can you . . ."

Wesley stared across his living room towards a sketch hanging on the wall. A group portrait of the Angel Investigations staff, showing more insight than skill but good likenesses of everyone. Cordelia had teased Angel for being skimpy on Christmas gifts, but her copy likewise hung on her wall.

"Yes. Yes, I can."

I know if I try to name everybody, I'd forget someone, so I won't, but I love all of the responses to Cindy's challenge.

Anne, do you have yours up somewhere where I can pimp the living fuck out of it?