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.

"More like a blow to the head, probably right before I met you." He's probably about to get another one, but a man's got to get his licks in. Gunn slides his arms up, pulls Wes's head down, gets those licks in. And doesn't get the blow to the head, 'cause Wes is kissing him back, and maybe the blow to the head would be easier to take.

They break apart, Gunn panting, Wes looking a little befuddled, like some other light bulb just went off, and Gunn thinks he knows just what it is Wes has just figured out. "You really want to know how long?" he asks, wondering if there's any way in hell he can push some of his caseload off on someone else and take Wes out for a long lunch followed by a long nap. Hell, he'll push it off on Harmony if that's what it takes.

Wes blinks, nods, and backs his way back to his chair, where he sits down with a thud that tells Gunn everything he needs to know.

"Long as I've been yours, Wes. You up for lunch?"

~fin~

Last night, the radio, which I liberated from Cordy, and put on a calming station on purpose, started playing "Don't Let Me Be Lonely Tonight", which I did not need. Everything's against me, I thought, and shut off that radio like I was pissed with it. The next thing I knew, the dream was back, a different one, in this room. Munch stood in here, looking all awkward like when he visited me in the hospital

"Nice place you have here," He approached my bed.

"Liar," I say, chuckling deep in my throat, like I overheard once "made him crazy"

"Ok, so it's a pleasing social fiction."he said, looking me over. "A convention. Kind of like that nightshirt." And he smirked at me. "I'm just observing convention for once,"

I hadn't realized my nightshirt was quite that short. It was decent enough for me and David Letterman, who were the only ones in here that night. "I thought you went creature feature, Munchkin."

"Yes, but I'm still me. Which now, in addition to Romanian-Jewish and multiply divorced, now includes Undead American."

"So, you're still interested in me below the neck, then?"

He nips my neck and we both understand this is only the beginning. I wait to be afraid, but I'm not. Tiny droplets of blood run from my neck and get caught in my cleavage. He licks them off with his tongue. "Does this answer your question? God, you taste so good, Kay." -more-

I surprise myself with my next question "Cause it's blood, or cause it's me?" Like I'm asking chocolate, vanilla, or strawberry.

"Oh, babe, it's all you. I would want to do this with you even if I hadn't been bitten. Can't you tell?"

I tell myself I'm horrified, but I'm not. I feel all lit up inside, in a way I haven't since I was sixteen and found out Chick liked me "more than a friend". I tried with Ed, but he and I only had a low-grade version of the same thing. I told myself that was good, cause we could hold off till the weekend when we had time for it. I lied about that, too. Just like I'm gonna lie to Timmy. To protect us.
"Oh, Munchkin!" I say, moaning a little. And also thinking it sounds ridiculous, but what pet name isn't?

We kiss and his lips are cold. Mine are hot enough to warm up the room, or at least his face. This would be a good way to die, I think, and it takes a minute before this translates into another upsetting awakening.I touch my chest, it's dry and scratch-free. I'm both relieved and disappointed. I put some pants on and decide to climb up on the roof. If I'm gonna get all sweaty in the middle of the night by myself, I might as well get some exercise. I feel like a teenager sneaking out her bedroom window. -more-

Oh, my. My my my.

Plei, you don't need me to tell you how good the Wes/Gunn is - since when has anything you've ever written with Wes in it been short of perfection? But I'm perfectly willing to throw more roses and yet another perfect Wes.

wrod. I didn't mean to ignore it, but I was afraid I'd lose my nerve.
And I forgot to thank Deb again for her beta.

Maybe a cop will come. That's about my speed these days, stranded up here with some piggish uniform leering at me while I'm wearing little more than my skivvies. Ok, Howard, I think, you're here, now what? I could jump off, I think, I'm losing my fucking mind.

But, you know, I know what that looks like. I know I'm not gonna float down on some fainting couch like some Debra Winger character, and I don't want the street covered in essence of Howard. Although the thought of messing up Detective Lockley's cuticles makes me smile for a minute. She's not bad, she just has no idea. None.

I look down at the buildings and wonder what the people inside are doing. Probably, somebody is killing somebody right now. Not that this makes me feel better, but in my confusion, whether Homicide has twisted me or not, it's good to have a pattern. Baseball season, football season, dunker season. Not like summer. Summer is like hell.