I can definitely see that. He digs the vision thing. And we lefties (well some of us)wanna believe inside every crazy person is a genius that "gets it" better than we do. You know, what if she's on to something? What if she knows the meaning of life? John isn't going to want to miss that.

John isn't going to want to miss that.

Right. And now I'm envisioning them circling round each other like doubtful dogs, sniffing for The Truth, whatever in hell that is - or at least John would. Dru? Who knows?

Of course, we all know intellectually that the crazy genius? Mostly bull. But it is our myth and we love it. Cause, you know, society is crazy. The other one we like is that there is an island somewhere where the people Get It Right and never fight or anything. Hmm, Buffista Island is making a different kind of sense now...

Let's see what Willow's up to, OK, boys and girls?

Willow lay in bed next to Tara, tracing her eyebrows and nose and lips. "You are so beautiful," she whispered. "So beautiful."

Tara's lips smiled under Willow's fingers. "So are you."

"You're more beautiful."

"No, I'm not."

Willow kissed her. "Yes, you are. So there."

Tara lowered her eyes, but she was smiling.

With a contented sigh, Willow snuggled in close. "I love you so very much."

"I love you more." Tara kissed her to stop the protest. "So there." Willow laughed and let it go.

They lay together in happy silence, watching the candles flicker lower. Miss Kitty hopped onto the bed and found her favorite spot in the curve behind Tara's knees. Tara's blinks finally became nearly indistinguishable from someone fighting sleep.

"Go to sleep, sweetie," Willow whispered. "I love watching you sleep."

"Voyeur," Tara murmured.

"Darn tootin'." Willow lightly ran her finger tips along Tara's forehead and cheekbones. "Go to sleep." Tara's eyelids slid closed and her breathing deepened. Willow continued to run her fingers along Tara's face. "Sweet dreams, my sweet. Deep sleep and sweet dreams." She kissed her lover's forehead and slipped carefully out of bed.

She stood a moment, watching Tara sleep. She still wasn't completely over the terror Glory's theft of Tara's mind, the feeling of helplessness when she didn't think she'd ever have her beloved back. She wished she'd watched more of the fight that had taken Glory down, just for the satisfaction.

There were still so many bad things out there, still so many ways your loved ones could get hurt. She had to learn every way she could to protect them. Nothing was ever going to hurt her family again.

She dressed quickly, gathered some things, and left as quietly as she could. The wards of protection on the door go an extra bit of energy. As tough as those wards were now, the whole building could catch fire and Tara would sleep peacefully on in a room completely untouched.

Not many people were still around in the break between summer school and fall semester. No one noticed Willow leaving the building--not that there was anything to notice, just a girl heading out with a knapsack over one shoulder. She strolled off casually, heading for the east side of town.

She took a shortcut through the smallest and oldest of Sunnydale's myriad cemeteries, filled with really neat crypts and Spike's former home. She wasn't far from the Du Lac crypt when she heard the sound of metal on stone.

"Oh, bother," she sighed, and changed directions.

Soft, gently sexy...perfect W/T.

Beautiful stuff, Connie.

Does anyone else have a tendency towards startitis? You get a wonderful plot bunny, hammer out a couple of killer scenes, and then stop cold?

Anne, my hard drive is littered with the evidence, much like leftover tissue when I have a cold.

Startits. I like that word. I also do that all of the time.

Oh, totally. I've had fictus interruptus many times...now I have stories that don't wanna end. The Muses are sick-humored bitches.

Here is a fairly random Faith & Gunn story I wrote for a challenge:

Title: Superpowers and Shiny Knives
Author: Elisabeth
Summary: You gotta train to stay sharp. Faith and Gunn, facing life after "Home" and "Chosen." It's better with weapons.
Rating: PG-13 for language.
Spoilers: Through the end of S7/S5
A/N: Written for , for the kitchen drawer ficathon. (Master list of stories here; the post is friends-locked.) Her request was Faith/Gunn (shippy or friend-y),any time during or after the Season 4 Angelus arc, bonding over weapons. I hope I delivered.

"You're shitting me," she said, leaning forward. Her body was a challenge: I dare you to impress me, lawyer-boy.

"No, man. See, I was like this –" Gunn demonstrated, slicing the air with the sword as he demonstrated how he had taken out a Se-Kowchyk demon in the sewers the year before. "And I took his head off, one blow, clean. Motherfucker never knew what hit him."

Faith's dark eyes were shiny. "There was this one time back in Boston, right after I was called? And, like, my watcher sent me out to this cemetery, and she didn't know there was a nest of vamps there. I ended up staking about five of them with, I swear to god, this big bunch of rose stems from someone's grave."

"Those kill them?"

She shrugged. "I guess it's close enough to wood. Or maybe anything works if you jam it hard enough in the right place." She paused, frowned. "But that probably works for things other than slaying."

He laughed. "Damn, girl -- you do have a mouth on you." He gestured to the open weapons cabinets. "See anything you want to try out?"

She reached in, hefted a shiny hubcap axe. Balancing it between two fingers, Faith spun it; first clockwise, then counter-clockwise. "Aw, this is wicked. It would take out a dozen vampires at once. Line 'em up and knock 'em down."d as she explained that it was important that he get his stuff out of the hyperion, just as she had removed her techie toys and Wesley had dismantled the library. Gunn watched the way her ponytail bounced on the back of her neck as she spoke and thought: I>She might make goo-goo eyes at scientist boy, but when she's lonely, I'm still her eating buddy. He remembered, vaguely, that their relationship had ended badly, but brushed the thought aside. No point obsessing. Time to move on. Fred was ready to be friends – why wasn't he?

Faith's voice jarred him back to the present. "How many demons you think you killed?" He liked watching her, all dark hair and feline grace, eye candy in a black tank top and red denim shorts.

And nothing was as sexy as a girl with a broadsword who knew how to use it.

"With this stuff, or overall?" he asked. "Probably I've bagged about 200 since I signed on with Angel. And back with my old crew, I killed maybe 75 vamps, fifteen assorted others."

"Not bad for a civilian," she said. "You got into this 'cause of your sister, right?" He nodded. "Man, I can't believe people without superpowers get into this shit. I'm a slayer, and I damn near dropped out."

He shrugged. "Demons were tearing up my neighborhood, my family, my friends. It was do something, or hide my head. The hiding thing didn't make much sense to me."

She nodded. "I get that. And now that I'm good? I mean, again?" She cut the air with the sword, too close to Gunn's ear for anyone without Slayer reflexes. "I'm kind of looking forward to killing a whole bunch of uglies. Preferably some that I have a chance against. I mean, if those days aren't over for good."

He looked up from the trunk that he was loading with a bunch of small weapons – daggers and nun chucks mostly, swaddled in old newspapers. "What do you mean?"

"It's ending, Chuck. You're, like, a genius lawyer now. And I'm gonna be teaching combat to new slayers until B kicks me out of her school. I don't see much more street fighting time ahead for us."

He rose, walked over to her, and put his hand on her arm. Voice quiet and dangerous, he said, "The way I see it, wearing a power suit during the day ain't gonna keep me from fighting the good fight at night. And nobody's gonna tell me any different."