She listens, narrowing her eyes at me from time to time, and doing that sexy pen-nibbling thing.”Huh.” she says, finally.
I had previously admired her ability to keep a calm exterior because, as you know by now, it’s an ability I do not possess. Now, I found it maddening as hell.” That’s it? Huh? I blow the lid off one of the biggest scandals of the new century and that’s what you say?”
“Without corroboration, I’m going with ‘Huh’. Remember, you saw a conspiracy in the return of red M&Ms. And, you’re not human.And you’re on their payroll. Maybe trying to protect your vamp girlfriend. And I know more than I want about that lady lawyer’s legs.Maybe you just wanna teach her a lesson, huh? You take rejection hard, Munchkin.”
“Could you not use “rejection” and “hard” in the same sentence? And I still think that candy thing is awfully convenient. Think about it, Kay. They wait almost a whole generation to bring them back. Why? Short memories, maybe?”
She gives me her “You’re unbelievable,” face. “That’s not a conspiracy...that’s what do you call it...marketing.”
I persist, though I don’t know why, maybe to wipe the cop look off her face. “Look at television and tell me there’s a difference.”
She shrugs. “OK, I’ll give you that much.But I still need evidence. Real evidence. And hopefully not a Ring.”
“God, Kay, not you too.”
“Hey, I was laid up. Had a lot of time to k...on my hands.”
”You know, that’s like a paean to militarism right? Fascism with furry toes.”
“ Hearing stuff like that almost makes me wish I’d let you suck my blood. It’d be less painful.”
“We could take care of that.”
“Jesus, Munch. I said almost. I should have gotten the car with the sunroof.”
Deb, your wife is a fic-writing goddess. Biggest smile I've had all week.
Erika, I'd start watching television again if you wrote the dialogue. The world lost a great TV writer when you weren't born twins.
Thank you so much for this; it's an oasis of goodness in the middle of the current madness.
Deb, you know he wouldn't enjoy that. Cause, nsm, with the steamy(unless you like slash, which he would notice but most emphatically not enjoy.) And because it was popular enough that every third person has seen it, thereby proving to him that it is suspect, just by virtue of that. And there is beaucoup swordfighting therein....(Insert phallic reference here) Definitely something the Munchkin would walk out on...especially considering he couldn't use it to score with.
Karl, from your keyboard to God's ears. Or something.(I...um, usually don't get considered the smile in anybody's week, hence the comfort with Munchness and "We don't have any good news to give anyone. Ever.")So, I'm all verklempt now. Sniff.
the first part of the next part of V!Giles
It begins where these sorts of things always do--in the night time, with a creature at home in the shadows meditating on passion and obsession and madness and the warm seductions of the dark. Or, to be less Bulwer-Littonish, with a vampire lurking outside the home of his target, wondering what it would take to lure said target out to play.
Spike was well aware of his tendency towards overwrought melodrama, especially when he had too much time on his hands. Sometimes, though, it was amusing to paint extravagant mental pictures. Like Buffy suddenly turning to him and crying, "You're everything I want in a man! You're gorgeous, strong, dangerous. You'll help me look after my family, and I bet you're a better lay than Angel, too."
OK, so he had a rich fantasy life. Sue him.
Then there were the other pictures: the look in Xander Harris' eyes changing from deep distrust to cautious intrigue. Something tragic happening to those wretched clothes of his. A sidelong glance that told of thoughtfulness instead of disgust.
It could happen, and there were better odds of that happening than his Buffy-fantasy coming true. Which was why Spike was lounging on the roof of the building across the street from Harris' apartment, hoping that tonight Harris would forget to either close the curtains before his shower or not wear a towel in the privacy of his own home. It was too early in the evening to occupy the small balcony outside Harris' window. That was reserved for sleep-watching and sleep-whispering--which was coming along well, come to think of it. The boy twitched very pleasantly when Spike whispered to him out of the dark. Once there might even have been the return whisper of Spike's name. If only Spike had a way of finding out what Harris was dreaming of.
He idly twisted the amber stud that pierced the top of his right ear. Time to poke Ripper about a permanent fix to the chip. One of the reasons for their LA trip was to check on surgeons, psychic and mundane. The mundane ones all heard what the Initiative doctor had said and were reluctant to second-guess someone with first-hand knowledge. The psychic surgeons were less pessimistic, but the ones willing to work on a vampire all over on the sleazy side. Not that Spike really objected to sleaze, but if he paid someone he wanted them to stay bought, at least until he decided to kill them and get his money back.
The best of the psychic surgeons all mentioned being under contract and that they'd need to get approval for independent work. When they mentioned the name Wolfram & Hart, Ripper had politely broken off talks and retreated. Something Buffy had learned from Angel made the ex- watcher think a little harder about getting involved with a demonic law firm. Still, if the price of getting dechipped was a bit of cooperation with an organization that apparently existed for the primary purpose of bothering Angel, Spike was willing to chat terms.
From the apartment below him came the sound of the late TV news signing off. Spike straightened and stretched. Xander would be heading to bed soon, virtuously geting his sleep so he could be fresh for work in the morning. Depending on how many beers he'd downed while watching the news, he should be out cold in ten minutes.
He easily dropped the two stories to the ground and sauntered across the street to Xander's building. The wind shifted, and he paused. Demon in the area. One of the big, dumb, break stuff up sort. No worries, so long as it found somewhere else to play--
Wood smashed with happy crunching sounds somewhere nearby. Somewhere quite nearby, like in Xander's building, on Xander's floor.
"I don't bloody well think so," Spike snarled, and began to run.
Xander stared at the remains of his front door, then at the large, blue-green figure standing in the doorway. The tentacles on the creature's head coiled up tightly in what looked like chagrin.
"I'm sorry," it--he?--said. "I don't know my own strength at times."
"What?" Xander finally managed.
"I didn't mean to announce myself quite so violently."
"What?" That still covered useful ground, and he wasn't getting a good answer yet.
The demon nodded. "Of course, I'm sorry, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Reinhart, and I'm here to face you in honorable single combat for the love of the fair Anyanka."
And still the explanation makes no more sense than the questions. "Honorable . . ."
Reinhart shrugged. "I understand your confusion. I was simply going to come here and rip out your pathetic human lungs for daring to consort with someone as fine and glorious as Anyanka, but she has told so many stories of your courage that I couldn't simply remove you as impertinent human scum. Anyanka believes you are worthy of her, and so I must prove myself even more worthy by destroying you honorably."
"Destroy me . . ."
Reinhart reached through the doorway and poked Xander lightly in the chest. He only staggered a little. "There, the challenge has been given. I await your convenience."
This week's drabble theme is a scenario: A girl is bleeding, in an alley.
First Breath
They say it never rains in LA.
Rain hits her face, small warm drops. They should be tears; the pain is enough to decimate her. She’s dying, small pieces of her consciousness ebbing out. Except she isn’t, because she can’t. She’s already dead.
Faces surround her. She speaks, pushing out words; if she could only push out this child in a womb never meant for that, this might stop.
There is something pulsing, a rush of blood between her thighs. Only one way to birth him.
The stake to her heart produces a baby boy, and no blood. Only dust.
Drabble the second, same theme:
Goblin Market
The evening had begun well; beers at the Bronze, dancing, even a hottie for a couple of hours of snogging.
Golden eyes, a mask of hideous ridges and the mouth of bestial nightmares were not on her list. Her own blood, smearing those horrifying teeth, took her will from her.
He was strong beyond anything in her experience. She’d given up hope when a small blonde woman picked him up like a rag doll, stabbed him, and reduced him to dust.
Her thanks were cut short. “Go home,” the woman told her. “And stay out of alleys, especially at night.”
Good one. Gotta tell you I'm tempted. I should probably not.
You just know it's gonna be a happy morning when your first thought's Adena Watson. But now she *is* "a girl lay bleeding" for me, so here goes.
It's not as psycho as it sounds...there's a real "Adena".Many, probably, sigh, but that particular case was an actual event.
Some part of Bayliss is always there, that alley where the girl, Adena, lay bleeding. The things that had been done to her, and her body just beginning to change. It was rainy and cold and crime-scene just wanted to go home. Tim wanted to ask them to have respect, but respect isn’t in the manual. There’s nothing in Practical Homicide about reverence. He’s prepared to stay there all night.Each new detail hits Tim in his own heart. The new shoes, the sweater that was never supposed to touch the grimy ground. The earring that reminds him of his own sister. “Release the body,” he says and his voice shakes.
Oh, wow.
That got me remembing things. Wow.
