I get to write two more. I think I will.

Not right this second, though. Cleaning.

Drabble the second, following a theme.

Of My Kind 2 (no spoilers)

It's wasn't a holiday, here in Paris. Then again, Paris has never needed a reason to deck itself out en fete.

The smallish young man - others would probably call him compact - moved through throngs of men dressed as pirates and couriers, of women dressed as houris and queens and butterflies. A girl, detaching herself from a glittering throng drinking champagne at the Seine's edge, whirled him into the dance. Fiddlers scraped a merry tune.

Oz pulled her close, spun her away, caught the wolf-scent on her. He let go of her hand, wondering if she'd scented him first.

Cool! Your descriptions are so much better than mine. I'm so not elegant.

But erika, mine have to be elegant, in this context - it's the 100-word limitation.

That's why I love them. They force me into self-discipline.

No, you know, I'd write 100 words on characters taking the trash out...my style is just kind of a blunt instrument.

But 100 words on taking out the garbage, depending on how it's written and who writes it, can be fucking staggering.

At the very least, it can be insanely illuminating of a given character.

And, the third one. This is definitely a triptych.

Not of His Kind

Slow dancing, a small hand in a large one. There is the barest breath of space between them, except for where she allows her head to rest against his sternum. There's a foot of difference in their height. This doesn't bother Riley; it triggers a protective surge in him.

Couples move around them, the frat house festooned in crepe paper streamers and tacky paper skeletons. He looks down at her, golden hair loose. She seems small, delicate, human.

A window crashes, and she looks up, scenting danger, shattering the mask of humanity, delicacy, fragility.

He is dancing with a Slayer.

Ooh, that's good!

Thanks. I found myself sort of investigating the paradox of same/not same: the two supernatural creatures found the unmasking of their partner revealing "same", whereas the human/human unmasking revealed "not same".

Fun.

Five drabbles; five things that never happened to Mr Gordo. Inspired by discussion in FFRW+E.

- - -

Buffy looked out into the chilly night, and shivered. Normally, she didn't mind patrolling; it was a time to be alone and be herself. It was her place, and the ritual had developed a comforting familiarity.

Tonight, however, it looked miserable. A thin drizzle fell, a lazy wind blew, and her bed was inviting, Mr Gordo smiling at her…

A thought occurred. She could take Mr Gordo with her; it wasn't like anybody would see. He'd fit in her pocket; be a little reminder of the warmth of home.

Later that night, Mr Gordo returned in triumph, muddier and wiser.

• * *

"Must have been one almighty bang," the young policeman commented as he surveyed the hole where Sunnydale had once been. "Makes you wonder, doesn't it, Joe."

"Wonder what?" Joe asked, poking through the rubble.

"Oh, you know. Exactly what the terrorists used."

"I reckon, if we're not being told, it's for a reason," his partner replied. "Here, look at this—some kid must have dropped it." Joe held up for inspection a battered stuffed pig, the plush stiff with dirt and one eye gone.

"Yeah," Gary said, and—thinking of his own daughter—added, "Bet they miss it, and all."

• * *

"It's kind of shiny, isn't it?" Buffy remarked to Mr Gordo, examining the pendant. She'd picked it up in the graveyard after a fight; it was round and silver, with a pink stone. "Here, you look after it for me. I need some sleep."

She draped the chain over his neck and hit the pillows, falling asleep almost instantly.

In the morning, Mr Gordo registered with surprise that he was looking at Buffy's stake; and that he was attracted. It wasn't an unpleasant sensation.

When Buffy came home, she wondered why she'd left Mr Pointy so close to Mr Gordo.

• * *

"Oh, look at the pretty pink pig," Drusilla squealed.

"Yeah, right," Spike said, exasperated. "Bring it with you if you must; let's just get out of the bloody Slayer's bedroom, shall we?"

"Oh, Spike," tutted Drusilla. "Must you spoil our fun?"

"If he doesn't, I will," Buffy's harsh voice said from the doorway. "Get the hell away from Mr Gordo."

Drusilla looked confused for a moment, and then registered the pig in her hands. "This? No, love. He's coming to have a tea party with…"

"He's not." Spike pulled the toy away, and shoved his girlfriend out the window. "Slayer…"

• * *

Dawn managed to open her sister's door silently, and grinned; revenge was well on the way. She tip-toed across the carpet… where was it?

There—on the bed. She'd have revenge—she'd get her nasty, too-strong sister back from all the times she'd been pushed out of the way. Mr Gordo, her prized toy pig (and what kind of girl wanted a stuffed pig anyway, Dawn thought snidely, conveniently forgetting her beloved lion), would meet his fate.

Scissors… neck joint… snip; then, elated, tear. Satisfying noises, and it didn't matter if she was found now. The damage had been done.

End.