This rooftop scene's taking a long time...
I flip through the report, and, unbelievably, my first thought was disgust that Gordo the Rat-faced Boy almost punched my ticket. Isn’t that stupid? Like it would console my family if the guy who made me 10-7 looked like Pierce Brosnan, huh? I might’ve died with a smile on my face...but that’s a thought for another day. I read about the Glock, all that, but instead of picturing the scene, like at work, I picture one of our late nights at the Wharf Rat. Munchkin was having some grief with some babe...one of many,huh? I tried, as best I could without a lobotomy, to explain what could be her gripe.
Munch said “You’re a credit to your gender, Kay. I’m proud to know you.”
I said “Thank you, Munchkin. “ kind of humoring, hoping to avoid a speech.(If I had known we’d ever have been different species, I might’ve been more patient.)
“I’d do anything for you,” he continued. “I’d take a bullet for you.”
“That’s not gonna happen, Munchkin. You know what you can do for me? Switch to coffee now.”
Damn, I thought, he really did anything for me. Well, me and Stanley.(We do make up about 80% of what the talk shows call his support system, huh?)Other than us, there’s the babe of the week, and a few wannabe artists and writers that also gripe about, well, The Man.
They like black almost as much as he does, and some don’t clean up as nice.I would’ve thought he learned a lesson from Brigitte, but no.
Knowing Pratt was dead lit a fire under me at the hospital. I improved so fast even the doctors, second most skeptical breed since cops and ER nurses, allowed themselves to hope for me. And every day, I was glad Bayliss caught the case and not Pembleton. Pembleton would have hung the Munchkin by his family jewels, just as part of his ongoing plan to put God in the Box, huh? There’s not much room for grey in Frank’s life.
erika, I'm now chewing on the notion that somehow, Munch's lack of self-flagellation over being vamped is somehow connected to the fact that he blew away the guy that ambushed and shot his friends, and his lack of regret over doing that.
Not sure how they're connected but in my head, they totally are.
So, was he asking for it?(And that makes me think of a joke my mom liked by Moms Somebody...Moms said that she had a husband that was dead, and she could only say good stuff about dead people. So...he's dead. Good.It's no wonder I'm like this, hearing that in my formative years.)
And he's got to appreciate the irony of a woman being the instrument of revenge, considering. And that it was his um...greatest vulnerability that brought everything to a climax?(heh heh)
But that brings me to a question.(See how Munchlike I'm getting. Answering questions with questions.) Am I underplaying that? Cause I don't want to make the Munchkin a sociopath. He's not. And I'm sure he did go through some stuff upon deciding to do it, but he's not Bayliss. Women aside(and only a few times with them) I see him as more the "I did it. It's ancient history." type. But have I made it too easy?
Cause I admit, I started this in kind of a light vein, meaning it to be a sort of one-note. "I wanna suck your blood,"
"Ooh, whatever, babe. Kind of freaky aren't you? I dig that...it's why I love the younger chicks." thing. Total PWP, a cheap laugh, whatevah. The deep, dark, stuff just kind of evolved, I think when Kay worried when he didn't come home...I'm always finding stuff I didn't expect...I don't have it in me for one-night stands, I guess, even "only" fanfiction
fic, fic, fic, fic. Gosh, it feels good when it's in the groove.
He started towards the dormitory to ask when a young man could get a thorough wash without running the risk of shocking anyone, but stopped after a couple of steps. No one was around, no one was watching him with caring, concerned eyes. No expectations or worries haunted him with accusations that he wasn't dealing with matters the way that he should. There was something he needed to do before he could honestly think he was on his way to settling things. Glancing around once more to make sure he was unobserved, he walked slowly out the front gates, around the walls, and up the slope to the olive grove and the memories sleeping there.
The birds paid him no mind as he walked up the hill. Some sort of snake twisted away into the taller grass; a rabbit leaped out of hiding and bounded into the rocks. Cicadas and other buzzing things made the day seem much noisier than a summer evening in town.
Both mass graves had grown over with grasses and weeds. Nature made no distinction between hellgod and holy warriors.
The fence of swords around the Knights' grave was undisturbed. Sister Mary had told Xander about the visit of the Knights earlier, and she'd said they'd debated another marker. In the end, they left it as it was. They had asked the sisters to thank whomever had set up the swords, calling it the most fitting memorial to those who had fallen in battle with their ages-old foe.
Xander settled down at the foot of the biggest olive tree and studied the graves. The nuns had shown no fear at having a hellgod buried in their graveyard. Apparently the dead didn't get up and stroll around so much in their world.
He wished he could stay here. Quiet, peaceful, and the work he did was appreciated. But there was that whole male thing and not fitting in too well in a convent. Maybe Sister Agnes knew of a nice monastery somewhere, hopefully one that didn't require a vow of silence. Someplace far in the country, where the dark things couldn't find you and lurk outside your window.
Most mornings he found at least one cigarette butt on his balcony. He tried to ignore it, tried not to pick them up in the mornings even though he hated trash on the floor, tried not to make a note in the evening that the balcony was still clean. Tried his very damnedest not to show he was awake when he smelled cigarette smoke in the middle of the night. The voice he sometimes heard, that whispered "Invite me in," existed only in nightmares.
Except if he pretended that voice was a dream, he was afraid that one night he was going to dream himself answering, "Come in."
And that way lay madness.
The man in the white hat did not stand shoulder to shoulder with the villain. There were sides, and he'd chosen his when the tiny blonde girl had turned over the rocks and showed the nasty things underneath. If he could face off against his oldest friend with every willingness to shove a stake in his heart, then he could surely keep his back turned to a joyful killer who had always shown such delight in causing him pain.
He'd never been tempted by Jesse's invitation to join the dark side, he'd never thought for even a moment that a life of evil at his best friend's side might not be all bad. He had not found one ounce of comfort in having Spike backing him up that long night, he had not been reassured that the two of them were functioning on the same wavelength of necessity and practicality.
He had not become much better at lying to himself.
Spike was stalking him. He knew that. What really worried him, though, was the number of times he felt like catching the vampire at it, just for a chance to talk to someone who understood what had happened that night, who wasn't trying to explain to him how he really felt about all of it, who wasn't trying to get him to fucking share. Whatever Spike was after, Xander aws fairly sure it wasn't something Dr. Phil would be advocating on TV.
Why the hell was the vampire after him, anyway? Buffy was supposed to be Spike's obsession. If it was a matter of Spike finally following through on the "I live for the day I kill you thing," Xander would have expected something a whole lot more straightforward than an Angelus-style stalk-and-scare.
Except there wasn't much scare involved, was there. Just Spike being there, nearby. Like he was waiting for something.
On the far side of the graveyard, a pair of deer picked their way down from the rocky slope, nibbling on bushes. Xander watched them, wondering how close they'd come to him if he sat perfectly still. But the wind shifted, and the animals' heads came up at the scent of human, then they bounced away at speed.
Sighing, Xander checked the position of the sun. Getting close to dark. He was starting to feel the effects of the drive and the long afternoon of work. He might just sleep without the dreams tonight. He'd been putting in as much overtime as he could at work, so he'd be exhausted enough for silent dreams. It even sometimes worked. He got to his feet and headed down to the convent, hoping they'd assigned him a room other than the one Anya had chosen before. Maybe he'd sleep better without waiting for the scent of cigarette smoke to come drifing in through his windows.
And a good big chunk to toss in the LJ.
Cause I don't want to make the Munchkin a sociopath. He's not. And I'm sure he did go through some stuff upon deciding to do it, but he's not Bayliss.
No, he's not. But you've got me looking back over the HLOTS in my memory, and now I'm tinking about him.
Hell. Will think when awake, unlike now.
My absolute favorite line, Connie, was "Nature makes no distinction between hellgods and holy warriors." damn.
Andrea, that sigh is why I put that in...Baylust aside.(I tried to "explain" Baylust on lj the other day to my fan...maybe she thinks I'm a freak cause I said I wanted to corrupt him(I also said other people want to rescue him, though, through the love of a good man, woman, rhino...please God let me be kidding in re rhinos) Well, she asked. And I was nice...didn't suggest an optometrist...but I flashed on Kennedy and "Have you seen you?") They've softened Munch enough on SVU enough that I'm starting to see Munchfic that looks like this...Munch gets saved through the love of a good woman...or Detective Fin. Hold me(I promise it'll stay platonic, babe)
I think it's funny that the story I wrote to basically a. see a hipster vampire. b.express my frustration about that "submissive" thing c. entertain Deb. is making me think the hardest.
(memory jump-up)
hipster vampire
One of my favourite cartoons was in Playboy in the late sixties. Showed a hippie, crumpled in a heap in a dark alley at night. And reeling off with this loopy grin on his face and his eyes rolling and a huge multi-coloured kaleidescope "voice" balloon coming out of his head was a very stoned vampire, obviously having sunk his fangs into someone deep into 5000 mikes of Owsley's best clearlight.
