He is a big toucher. He's always reaching out and touching someone's arm or shoulder.

Erika, have you seen this site? I think it might give you some info on the exes: [link]

Yes, I did, and interesting as it is...that is like the one piece of info it didn't give me. From The Life Imitates Art Imitates Life Department: The fortune cookie from my Chinese food said: "Do not expect romantic attachments to be logical or rational."ETA: Deena, thanks, I'm fine with making up stuff...I just thought a geek of longer standing would've compiled it for me. Cause they would, if it were Giles, Frodo, or Draco Malfoy.

Okay, I'm starting to think Munch's wives are the Holy Grail and just about as unobtainable. Here are a couple of very cool and interesting links, though they don't tell me what I want to know.

[link]

[link]

It's out there. Somewhere.

He definitely thought so. In fact that may be why he loved them...besides The Sex.Hmm, there's some Xander in the Munchkin too.ETA: It makes me a freak if I'm happier to be smarter than some Diane off yahoogroups, yes? I'm thinking so...and yet? There it is.And, Deena, thanks, and I've seen that drinking game before, too. Funny and rude. Homicide geeks are not like the other geeks.

H:LOTS geeks are a class unto them/ourselves.

Yes, I swear by the soul of Bernadette Marie Alice Rinehart that this is true.

I am doing something productive with my day off!

The sisters tried to refuse the gifts Joyce had brought, but for once they had run into a force more powerful than their certain faith: the generosity of a grateful woman. While Sister Agnes was still in the process of graciously giving in, Xander shrugged and began unloading boxes from the Land Rover. He asked Baynar for directions, and the little demon happily led the way to the kitchen and to the storage rooms.

He found Savlin, Baynar's mother, in the tool shed, sharpening a hoe. The large Minoto smiled at Xander. "You have returned."

"So I have."

Savlin came over and made what seemed to be pleased noises over the box of hand tools Xander had brought in.

"I thought you and your family were going to San Francisco," Xander said as he helped her unpack the pruning shears and trowels.

"We have been waiting for word about my mate, Baynar's father, yes. He was supposed to meet us here. He will be here in another few days, then we will go on to the city to join the rest of our clan." She looked down at Baynar, who was still staying close to Xander's leg. "I am pleased we are able to see you again."

Xander shrugged and grinned. "Kind of nice to see you and the little rugrat, too." He grinned down at Baynar, who hissed and bounced before tugging on Xander's pantleg.

"Now," Baynar said, pointing to the door. "Now."

"Why am I not surprised that he's learned that word," Xander said to Savlin with a smile.

Savlin shook her head. "He is young, and the world does not move quickly enough for him. Go, I shall unpack these."

"Cool, thanks." He held his hand out to Baynar. "OK, little dude, where are we off to?" Baynar squealed and began tugging Xander off with surprising strength.

He was conducted on a tour of the convent, narrated in a fairly incomprehensible mix of Minoto hisses and stray English words. Baynar pointed out the repaired gate, the chicken coops, the grape arbor, then led the way out to show off the cows and the plowhorse. The nuns they passed all smiled at him and said how nice it was to see him again. Something in his spine unkinked, and he felt like he was standing straight for the first time in weeks.

As they rounded the back wall of the convent, Baynar paused with a small squeak. Xander looked at him and saw the little demon was staring up the slope at the olive grove--and the graveyard laying there.

"Let's not, OK?" he said tightly.

Baynar looked up at him, a worried look on his face, then he turned around and led the way back the way they'd come.

They found Savlin and the rest of the Minoto coming in from the field. There were two more of the demons than had been present in the spring, and they stared uncertainly at Xander. Savlin and the others hissed quickly at them, but that didn't stop them staring.

"Not used to humans, huh?" Xander said.

Savlin nodded. "We are telling them that you are a good human, that you are the one who defended us that long night against the bad men and against Glory."

He blushed hard and felt a little sick. "It wasn't just me. Buffy and--and Giles did the heavy lifting on taking Glory down. Hell, even Spike helped."

"Yes, we have told them. It is a good story to tell on a summer night when we are sitting under the stars, frightening and heroic."

The two newcomers were whispering together and giving him furtive looks. But they didn't look like nervous looks. He took a step away. "It wasn't like that--well, maybe it was. Frightening, anyway. But I just did what I had to."

Savlin nodded again. "Yes, a good tale. A strong tale. There have been several who have come to hear of the destruction of Glory."

"What? People have come here . . ."

"The word has spread. When we go to the city, there will be many who will seek us out to hear the story from ones who witnessed it."

And that was nausea twisting his gut. "Look, please, you can't--I don't want--what are you telling them?"

She tilted her head, a bit perplexed. "The truth. You and your friends stood against an army and would not let them do us harm. And when Glory came, you fought her as well. It was a brave thing, and we are honored to have witnessed it."

Xander didn't know why her words hurt so much. There had been no time for bravery, only for fear and resignation and the knowledge that there were no choices. It shouldn't be a story to be told over beers to a bunch of people who had no idea what had happened. He hated the idea that strangers knew what he had done.

One of the others hissed at Savlin, who nodded and hefted her shovel. "We must get the tools put away before supper. We shall talk later, Xander Harris." She spoke briefly to her son, who nodded quickly. "Baynar will try to tell you that he does not need to was before he eats. Do not believe him."

"Yeah, OK."

The Minoto continued inside the convent, and Baynar tugged on Xander's hand, leading the way down the road to show him something in the fields. Xander focused on the high-pitched voice instead of the screams in his memory.

I liked that a lot. As for mine, I'm shy about this, considered not posting it, but ironically, if the Pornathology had existed, this would be out there already, with a different accent...well, the kinky part, anyway. Still Kay's POV(I thought we'd be back in Munchkinland already, but you know...)

For the next few days, I sleep like a rock, only becoming agitated when Wesley, who I've not exactly gotten trust back with, keeps forcing stakes and funky maces on me. Men. They're always wanting us to be impressed with their instruments. Even the most perceptive creature can be wrong sometimes, huh? Like I had my streak, and then I caught Chilton, where nothing went right. Later, we got it. It was the piece-of-shit husband.(It usually is, ladies. Something to think about as you make out the shower invites, huh?) Maybe I was Lorne's Chilton case. I made arrangements to go back to Charm City, where the stuff I didn't understand made more sense. -more-

I dreaded telling Timmy what's what. He'll make a big drama of it...I can smell it from here. One of those Greek jobs Munch is always talking about, with guys blinding themselves and boffing their mamas.Or at least "As the Squadroom Turns".
It was never like that between Munch and me, I'll tell him.

Sure, sure,he'll say, agreeing like some pantywaist shrink on Oprah(Not Dr. Phil, one of the other ones. He may be a hayseed, but at least you can follow what he says, huh?) I plan what I say to Timmy(and myself) It was my diet, the events of this last year,Munch's "transition", maybe too much drinking. But I know he might just give me the puppy eyes, and think whatever he wants.
-more-

We can post our Secret Slasha stories now. Whee. I wrote two.

Property Law

He's never in a million years going to be able to live this down. Gunn settles in at his desk. It's already morning, and Halloween party or no Halloween party the night before, he's got enough work on his plate that there's no sense in him going home, and anyhow, he's too embarrassed to sleep. Doesn't matter that it was all Lorne's suggestion making him do it: the why's not the problem; it's the what, or more specifically, the who. Marking his territory. Marking Wes as his territory. Shit. Maybe he should start looking into that procedure they've got, the one that would remove his sense of shame. Be damn useful in the courtroom, so he could make a business case for it.

Or he could just have someone pick up a pair of replacement shoes, then Gunn could deliver them Wesward and pretend everything's cool, like Wes just happened to get in the way of Gunn staking his claim on a corner. Less chance of Angel getting all high and mighty about Wolfram and Hart's various medical miracles if he does it that way.

He pulls Wes's shoe size from Files and Records, then calls Harmony into his office to get her opinion on Prada vs. Gucci before going with Cole Haan, two pairs, for immediate delivery. Less flashy, more Wes.

"Have them send over a couple of pairs of cashmere socks, too," he adds when Harmony's already on her way out to place the order. "Oh, and maybe some silk ones, too."

Half an hour after the package arrives, it's still sitting there on the edge of his desk, a big fat looming to-do, and no way he's getting any real work done until he deals with this. Gunn puts aside the briefs and files he's been trying to make his way through with no luck, picks up the box, and makes the short walk to Wes's office. Might as well get it over with.

Wes's sitting there at his desk, looking pale and more than a little worn in the morning sunlight. So far, so good. Maybe Wes's too tired to care about last night, or so magically hungover he doesn't remember what all happened. Then Wes looks up, and man, it's the lost puppy trying to be brave look, same one Wes had after Angel fired their asses. Must have been one hell of a bad night for him, too.

"Brought you some shoes. Figure you don't want to spend the day wearing the pair from last night." He sets the box down on Wes's desk, then goes and leans against the wall, waiting for Wes to put them on.

"The ones you peed on, you mean?" Wes laughs, but there's nothing funny about the sound. "Sadly, I fear that was the highlight of my night." Then, more peevish than usual: "Do I look as if I'm somebody's girlfriend?"

"I miss something? I thought Lorne suggested you get drunk, not you turn into a woman." Though Wes turning into a woman would solve a lot of problems. Maybe not for Wes, but for Gunn.

A shake of the head, slight huff of an exhale meaning Wes doesn't want to talk about it. "It's nothing. So, you've taken it upon yourself to replace my shoes?" He pulls the box over and opens it, pulling out both pairs and carefully examining them before he shoots Gunn a suspicious glance. "These look a touch more expensive than my Bexleys."

"Yeah, well, we've moved up in the world. Time to dress the part." He clears his throat, tries to change the subject a little. "You gonna try them on, or you gonna make me wait all day to see if they fit when you know I've got work to do?"

Wes picks up the black oxfords and a pair of socks--the silk ones--then scoots his chair out from behind the desk, out to where Gunn can't help but look at him. Wes is barefoot, slacks folded up past his ankles like a kid who's about to hit the wading pool. Long, slim feet, all high arches and delicate bones under thin, soft looking skin. Wes, he realizes, should be barefoot more often, or at least barefoot more often when Gunn's around.

"Damn, you've got pretty feet," he blurts out without thinking and Wes--freezes. There's no other word for it.

"I beg your pardon?" he says slowly, one hand still on the laces he'd been loosening a second before. Gunn figures he's got at least a couple seconds before the light bulb goes off over Wes's head, but that's no where near enough time to get the hell out of there. "I have pretty... feet?" Wes looks at his feet, looks at Gunn, looks at his feet again and the light bulb goes off. "Oh. I see. Gunn, is there something you've neglected to tell me?"

Shit. "Apparently not."

Wes leaves the shoes and socks on the floor next to him, sits up and leans back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, legs crossed at the ankle in a way that manages to expose as much foot as possible. "Since when," he asks, the lost puppy look long gone, replaced with the sort of smug one Gunn hates and gets way too often, "have I been your territory?"

"By my watch? About twelve hours, but it looks like you've cleared off the evidence."

"I threw away the shoes and washed my apparently pretty feet, if that's what you mean. But I suspect you must have considered me your property for some time before deciding to stake your claim in the charmingly primitive fashion of last night. So tell me, Gunn, how long?"

"You're not making me say this." This is torture, and he's starting to suspect Wes gets off on it.

Wes stands up, walking towards Gunn like the big cat does, eyes all glittery. His arms go up, one on either side of Gunn, trapping him against the wall. "Was it the result of whatever Wolfram and Hart did to your brain, a side effect to go along with the light opera?" Yeah, Wes is getting off on it. Wouldn't be pulling this crap about the upgrade if he wasn't, not knowing how much it pisses Gunn off.