I've never watched an entire episode of L&O, erika. Premise doesn't interest me, and I don't have cable.

I just never expect to have new readers. Or, hell, even old ones, with these mutant bunnies.

You are cute. But yeah, your stories would be easier to follow if you labeled each part with the fandoms, and maybe kept a web page with links to each section. I know I get lost trying to keep up.

And Fay, that was an awesome Faith voice. I am breathless.

“Total slander....well, let’s find that mausoleum now.”

Bwah! Great work, erika.

Hmm, I get some webspace free from my ISP. Feeling very strong "Should I stay or should I go?" feelings about that. Cause I'm not sure I want to be a Fandom Person that much...I started doing it, just hoping for one good story. And I got that, a couple times.But it has taken on a life of its own... I'm just not sure if I want to go with it or not. Thanks, sj. I really liked Claire a lot.

Claire is my favorite. None of the other female DA's have lived up to her, imo.

Fay! DAYUYM, woman.

And you should totally send that to Roz. And if you do, can you please tell her I'm working on her Faith piece, but had to take time out to edit second novel?

That piece had almost too much salty goodness to enable me to single out anything, but I have to confess to a major heart-on for

Her back arches, raising the paper bag up for a moment, and her breasts press against the thin fabric of a too-small t-shirt borrowed from Dawn. Faith's approach to laundry is erratic. She isn't wearing a bra.

That's just so damned Faith. And she isn't even my girl, you know? I rarely write her, mostly because I've seen too many bad attempts to humanise her. Too many of them have taken the "let's cut her down, that ought to do it" road.

Not yours, bebe. It fucking kills.

More "Fledgling", which is to say, more Homicide/Angel.... I expect to be finished soon. Munch POV
It bothers me to think of leaving Drusilla. It surprises me how much. But she’s a job by herself. She talks too much and I’d be afraid to leave her in my place by herself because she’d set the place on fire or something. Maybe I should just cut out some afternoon, early, before she wakes up. Because she could get around me with those big green eyes...I know she could, even though you’d hardly expect a monster to be so schmaltzy, right? I know I wouldn’t. But we were both brought into this against our will, even if I had more of a choice than Dru.

The files are neat, like those of the Third Reich before them.”Why did they keep all this shit? Didn’t they know how incriminating it would be?” I guess it’s true what we always say around the squad. Crime does make you stupid, even when you’re not.

This must be Counselor Herrenvolk’s department. I see Lilah as more of a reckless abandon type, more or less, although thinking of her like that still presents a huge distraction, evil though I know she is. I could never be truly evil, just like I couldn’t be truly good. I have one foot on each side of either line, but just thinking the phrase “truly good” made me climb into the air vents until I could hear in the office Kay and that Manners guy went into.
Even though I know it has to be some good cop thing, it kills me to hear her laugh with him. I want to charge in there like a cowboy and hold her to my cold, bony breast, claim I was there as back-up. But she’d think I was out of my mind.
Not half as much as Angelus must be, poor bastard. That whole perfect happiness thing must really mess with his social life.But here again, I have to take issue with established accounts. Because apparently, it was so good with Buffy, the 16-year-old virgin, that the first time they did it, he lost his soul. Pardon me for not believing that for a moment...there are at least three major sociological and physiological problems with that theory.After about the third time, maybe they’d have imperfect happiness, like everyone else.

But then, I swear, against my will, my fantasies about Kay return to mind. Only this time, it’s after, and she’s got her head, with her amazing hair, across my chest. Not a lot of fireworks or gymnastics, but I can’t imagine much better on this corrupted planet, damn it.

Dying really screws up your love life. We have things in common, me and him, though, The Princess got to both of us. Kind of a small club, like the guys who married Marilyn.Nobody else knows what it’s like. He doesn’t strike me though, as the kind of guy to sit in a Cavalier and talk about it with a person, which seems like a waste if you ask me.

But on the bright side, it’s only a little bit my fault this time, that’s got to be a step forward, right? Yeah, sure, John, you just keep telling yourself that...I really hate it when I get hopeful, it clouds my thinking, even as I live for it. If I don’t watch out, I’ll end up unliving with Dru forever: his and hers mishegoss, two couches, no waiting. It’ll be like living with Nancy all over again, without the finality of death(We were great till we signed the papers, by the way.I don’t know if being married changed her too much or me not enough, but I’m taking the Fifth anyway.)

Erika, I'm so enjoying your Munch. I can't mind at all that you're ficcing so much. Such good stuff in here lately. Deb and Fay, so nice.

I wrote a (I think) funny Buffy/Angel/Cordelia fic and used the word glovebox. I've been questioned about the use of that word, and I know there's another one that's used regularly, but I can't think of it.

The fic is here: Cordelia Chase. Actress. Hero

(staggering into thread)

erika, WOOT!

Deena, it's a glovebox in the UK; here, I've always heard it called the glove compartment.

(Off to read fic)

edit: muHAH! Dying laughing here, Deena. Go Cordy, with the fractured Latin!

I finished Fledgling last night. Let's not say anything about what that makes my Saturday nights, huh?
KAY

It takes thirty-seven of my steps to pace alongside Manners’ massive desk. I’ve counted twice. It helps me focus my thinking. You can’t talk to a suspect or informant without being focused...they fuck with you otherwise.And I’m gonna need focus to be able to handle both the Cliff’s notes of the business page and the fact that I let this preppie weasel stick a sticky with “Enron” on it right between Barnes and Noble.

I fight the urge to find a bathroom and, like, scrub, for a week. Like another one of Munch’s creepy stories. About this queen, you know, that felt so responsible for somebody’s death that her hands would never come clean. “Guess they hadn’t invented Borax in those days, huh?” I said, kidding, because I really do understand. I still feel really responsible for Vaughn Perkins.

He looked at me like I was hopeless and said “It’s *symbolic*, Kay. For God’s sake...” and he started snorting and bitching about the educational system, and some other stuff that I sort of lost the thread of. Heaven help me, but I enjoyed that. At least, he had stuff he cared about, not walking around at half-wattage like this guy, having to be hit to get a thrill...and if the Munchkin enjoys that, I’d rather not know. It’s over. For above all, he’s dead. Surprisingly animated but dead. At the very least, I require my lovers to have a heartbeat.
And most of them have sucked the life out of me by losing interest, not with their teeth. Or, well, Tommy had a wife. That was probably more painful than this...listening to him tell some other broad he loved her after we steamed up the windows of a Cavalier together and had a big laugh at her expense. What kind of demon gets inside a guy that makes him do stuff like that?
For a minute, I want to ask Manners, but he’s on the hot seat, not me. And I’m not Kay. Mistress Katrina doesn’t have these problems. “Ok, Holland,” I say. “Can I call you Holland?"

“Call me whatever it pleases you to call me, Mistress.”

I have a feeling I could have cause to make him regret that.Ten years on the Job and spending your teenaged years around oystermen don’t make for many flowery phrases...at least not ones you’d repeat somewhere nice. “Let’s stick with Holland, shall we?”

To my relief, he just nods. Doesn’t go through the “Yes, sir, no sir, three bags full, sir” bit again. Where are his stones?I would think it would be hard to argue in court without them.That was the thing, between me and Ed, I’d watch him in court, and get kind of excited, you know.Because right from court, he’d be all feisty. But not enough to fight past my shooting. Maybe I am wrong. Maybe one less human in a relationship is a good thing. Maybe I could come off shift, warm up some pig’s blood(or should it be cow’s?Munch *is* Jewish.) a couple nights a week, and let him screw me silly. I kind of like the way he looks at me in this Mistress of Pain get-up, even as it makes me feel exposed and naked. (The funny thing is, he already saw that, too, probably, if he was there when the EMTs were. He will *not* talk about that.Can you imagine? Munch being modest about nudity?)

But the way he looks at me makes me feel young, like being sixteen. Like thinking murders were Agatha Christie, puzzles with clear meanings where only bastards get hurt. Sometimes I miss that, huh?

“Come on, Holland. Explain about the chads, Holland. Cause you know,I’m not good at math enough to follow the Enron thing.”

“Your assets lie in other areas,” Manners said and licked his flabby lips. Oh, God,better an unattended death in July. At least then, I could just go outside and heave without worrying about looking cute.

“Actually, that was Lilah’s baby.”

“Honesty is the best policy, Holland.” And I lashed him with the crop. And felt better, Me, who got pissed off when I found out I couldn’t be a priest.(Hey, I was eleven. Poverty and chastity look a lot better when you think boys have cooties and you get an allowance)

“Oh, ok, I did it. I got wizards to enchant the ballot paper.”

Damn. Munchkin was right. I wish he was here. I say his name, into the vent, pretend I’m coughing, feeling like I’m in seventh grade. “Wow, you’re taking my breath away, Manners,” letting my chest stick out even further, attempting to tantalize him with whatever promise lay in my cold-sweat-drenched flesh. I couldn’t believe there was any.I felt sure he could see my shaking and confusion, the fact that I’ve been sitting here for the last hour thinking about my personal problems. All of it. But I must be good undercover, too. Or he could be, you know, blinded by his little hobby. But I’m gonna let people think I’m a hundred percent confident in this area. I wouldn’t want anyone thinking I’m a chick who doesn’t believe in herself. That’s one problem with women. A lot of us don’t take enough credit.

But I pat myself on the back a little too hard, because right at that very instant? Holland Manners finds his stones. First time in maybe twenty years...lucky me. He crosses the continent of desk before I am prepared for it and embraces me, puts his greasy money-grubbing hands all over my body. I’m torn. Is democracy worth the most disgusting ten minutes of my life? Eh, he’s not that bad. I’ve danced with worse-looking people, and after this evening there’s not too much high ground left for me. I’m about to close my eyes and think of Washington when he takes the fun a little bit too far. He goes for my “weapon”...trying to feel manly, I guess. A little late, in my opinion, and in total conflict with years of training that says that I should never give my weapon up.

”Oh”, he says, trying to be clever, like some supervillain or something. “Your friend is gone, your weapon is gone. What do you have now?”

That just tore

aaagh! more, Erika!

Changed to glove compartment. I'm guessing I have too many british authors in my past. Either that, or the weird way my father speaks is some sort of throwback to his Irish ancestors.

I'm really glad you liked it, Deb. It wasn't supposed to be funny, but I couldn't put those three together and it not be funny. The muse didn't want to go that way.