The revelry of Buffista f2f 2004 was starting to get going. Time for the annual sing along of OMWF. Too many bodies stuffed in a hospitality suite as always...with a few hardy souls testing out the Kitchen of Porn already. A few Buffistas decide it’s too early for that kind of nonsense and go looking for Deb’s fancy clothes and shoes to pick through for Prom.

Amych runs into Tep, who skips sing-a-longs on principle. “Hey, Tep, have you seen Deb? Cause I can’t get in the room. I knocked, but no answer. Cause you know, Hec and JZ will be here for a while...and you know, I want to look my best. And she said she'd bring that black thing."

“Say no more. But you know, I haven’t seen her lately. She went to the bathroom and didn’t come back.”

“Well, we did have quite a party last night.”

“Yeah, well, I’d better check,” Tep said. “It’s a Cancer thing.”

Tep looks around, finally spying Deb G, lying in her hotel room, dead.

“I think she’s dead.”

“Dead sexy?” the Empress asked.

“No, I think she’s actually dead.”

“Erika’s gonna be sorry she missed this,” Juliana said. A few Buffistas give her reproving looks. “Well, she would, all that crime stuff.”

“Well, what should we do?”

“Send ita to go look around!”

“Why me?”

“Cause if anybody dangerous shows up you can kill ‘em.” An Laista points out helpfully.

“But not so well,” ita apologizes. “Only three ways. I’d really rather have five or six under my belt first.”

“It only takes one, ita.” Allyson points out, ever the planner.
“Don’t. touch. Anything." DX said.
“What does Google say?”

“Where’s Giles when you want him?”

“Mmm, Giles. Maybe he could bring his chainsaw?”

“That would be so.Hot.”

“You guys, I think I’ve got a call to make.”Tep said, holding up her hand like she was directing traffic.

Meanwhile on the other end,

“Howard. Homicide.” Damn, Kay thought. I wanted an easy night tonight. Was that music? “Going through the motions/walking through the part.” You and me both, honey.
Sheesh. “Ma’am, you’re gonna have to keep the noise level down, huh?” This was definitely gonna be a weird one...she could just feel it. Maybe she should swap with Beau, at least not be stuck with primary.
No, she actually wanted to put down the case. Not leave it to Johnny Walker and Natty Bo and Jack Daniels. Wouldn’t you know, it'd be a tourist. Please don’t let the brass crawl up my butt on this one, she prayed, feeling sacriligious. Beau wasn’t back from lunch yet...crap, stupid marriage counseling with Psycho Beth.

She grabbed Munch and said “ You’re coming with me.”

“I thought you’d never ask.”

Must. stop. laughing. long. enough. to. breathe.....

Glad you like it.

Bwah! Erika, that is great.

“I think she’s dead.”

“Dead sexy?” the Empress asked.

“No, I think she’s actually dead.”

t weeping tears of laughter

That was the part that made me hurt myself laughing, as well - but it got louder, with juliana's comment about the crime stuff.

Oh, love it Erika, more more! That's just too funny.

Yay!

I haven't done this in a bit, but here's some of a fic from a bunny that must be related to Clovis. My muse wanted to play dress-up while letting V!Giles cook a little longer. It's called Nessuno, which is Italian for Nobody. Join me, my friends, to a trip to Renaissance Italy.

All roads lead to Roma. If you wanted to reach the pinnacle of power, you didn't stay in Milan, no matter how influential the Sforza family was. Instead, you went to the center of the world and made sure you came to the attention of the Curia and the Princes of Holy Mother Church.

Guillermo, called Il Sanguinante, lounged on the sill of a large window in a grand upper hallway of the Papal Palace, cleaning his fingernails with a long, thin-bladed dagger. The air of casual menace was no act, but the relaxation was. Since he and the mercenary band he was lieutenant of had come to Roma as part of the entourage of Giovanni Sforza five years ago in 1493, Guillermo had been careful to reaffirm his reputation as one of the deadliest members of the band known as the Scourge of Europe. And he was only the second in command.

The company had secured their place in the favor of Pope Alexander VI by guarding his refuge in the Castel Sant' Angelo when the French had entered Roma in 1494. The Swiss Guard, traditional protectors of the Holy Father, had been a little unreliable, but mercenaries were loyal to whomever paid them. And Alexander VI had access to a great deal of money.

Still, the Apostolic court had different standards than a mercenary camp, and outright murder was considered gauche. The deaths of three members of the Papal Guard was not the easiest thing to sweep under the carpet. Certainly the half dozen Guards standing next to the only easy exit were unwilling to let the matter slide.

Guillermo flicked one last bit of annoyance off a long finger then gazed out the window, absently tossing his dagger into the air and catching it. Down below, St. Peter's Square was full of bustle, though most of the crowd was depressingly monochromatic. Flocks of black-clad priests and nuns, spattered with bloody Cardinals. He glanced down at his own crimson and black attire and smiled. At least he looked good.

"Will, m'lad!" boomed a very familiar voice that was coming down the hallway.

Guillermo let only his reflection in the glass see his grin, then made sure that the eye roll and sneer were visible as he turned. "I am not one of your barbaric Irish relatives, Angelo. Or have you forgotten how to speak Italian again?" He slid easily off the window sill to his feet.

A big man who habitually wore green and gold for his native land, Angelo di l'Irlanda stood at least half a head taller than everyone around him. He fairly oozed good fellowship and seemed the perfect companion for a visit to a cheerful tavern. People who were meeting him a second time stayed out of reach of those big hands and watched his eyes. Those who stayed with him, however, knew there was no better man to have at your back in a tussle. But once you were one of his, you developed the depressing urge to fling yourself into mad schemes and hopeless battles, just because he asked it of you. Because the odds were good that he'd be leading the charge.

"How did it go?" Guillermo asked.

Angelo flung his left arm around Guillermo's shoulders. "The Captain of the Guard is a reasonable man, Guillermo. I don't understand how you came to believe he was so angry with you. We discussed the matter like rational men, and he's perfectly willing to see it was a case of self-defense. Three against one? Who could possibly believe that you'd start a fight like that?"

They both managed not to snicker.

Guillermo finally managed a straight face. "What did you to him?"

"Do to him?" Only Angelo could manage to look so affronted and so wicked. "Why, I only offered to settle it like any gentleman would. He answers for his men, I answer for mine."

Guillermo stopped and stared at his captain. "You challenged the Captain of the Guard to a duel?" Angelo shrugged. "Did he piss himself?"

"Guillermo!" Angelo turned so the six Guards down the hall couldn't see his smirk. "He was going to accept, but he remembered an important meeting he needed to attend. I offered to meet him later, but he's such a busy man, he said it would be better just to let the matter slide."

"That's very kind of him." He bit the inside of his cheek to stop the laughter. "So, can we go? We've got things to do ourselves."

"We can go."

They strolled down the hallway, Angelo's arm still around Guillermo's shoulders. The six Papal Guards glanced at each other thoughtfully. The two mercenaries pretended not to notice. More fools they, if the Guards hadn't noticed that Guillermo's sword was on his right hip and that Angelo was not blocking his left arm, his sword arm. It wouldn't be the first time the two mercenaries had had to draw steel together.

This time, however, the Guards decided on the better part of valour and let the pair go on their way. Angelo pulled his arm back, and Guillermo stepped away to a better position for fighting if necessary. They strode down a grand staircase, and the priestly minions to the Papal throne made hurried way for them.

"Was it as simple as you make it out to be?" Guillermo asked.

"Is it ever?" Angelo glared at him. "What have I told you, boy, about leaving witnesses to your little dances?"

"To make sure there aren't any. But I think the Holy Father might have been a bit annoyed with me if I slit the throat of his son."

Angelo paused. "You didn't tell me Cesare was there." Guillermo shrugged. "Was he involved?"

"I saw him talking to those three before they came up and got insulting, if that's what you mean."

"You mean--it *was* self-defense?"

Guillermo laughed. "Please don't sound so shocked, Angelo. I can occasionally walk down a hallway wi

Guillermo laughed. "Please don't sound so shocked, Angelo. I can occasionally walk down a hallway without killing someone."

Angelo didn't laugh. "Why is Cesare Borgia involved in this?"

"Cesare likes seeing things die. I don't know if he was hoping I'd go down or if he just wanted to watch me butcher those Guards."

"Why you?"

"I was handy? He was curious to see if I could do it?"

"You didn't--insult him?"

"Insult the Holy Father's son? Do I look stupid? Leave my hat out of this."

But Angelo ignored the invitation to begin a debate on tastes in clothing. "I've seen him watching you, and it's a very thoughtful look."

Guillermo tilted his head to give his captain a narrow look. "Are you thinking I propositioned him and he was offended? Or that I refused an invitation to one of his little Greek feasts? Angelo, just because you sometimes find me in bed with someone other than a wench doesn't mean every man in the city is after me. And you're blushing."

"I am not," Angelo snapped, walking faster and not caring that a pair of bejeweled Bishops had to jump out of his way.

Guillermo was careful to stay far enough back so he'd have to raise his voice. "Besides, I'm too old to suit his tastes." Angelo waved his hands around his ears, as if he could shoo away the words.

Bumpkin, Guillermo mused fondly. As if Angelo hadn't woken up next to another man himself once or twice. Though that generally involved so much wine that he started singing and babbling in his own uncivilized tongue. Oddly enough, Angelo always refused to translate those babblings the next day.

He considered his purse and wondered if there was enough wine back at their lodgings to get Angelo that drunk again.

• **

After five years in service at the Vatican, Alexander felt he knew his way around the Papal court fairly well. He knew the shortcuts between the ornate chambers, which Monsignors were most like to turn a blind eye to mischief, and which members of which families it was essential not to annoy. The great Cardinals never paid attention to lowly novices; so long as you bowed appropriately as they passed and let their servants put on airs, they were safely ignored.

Alexander had come from a village near Florence. The dying orders of a Medici matriarch had stated that a dozen peasant lads were to be taken from their lowly estates and sponsored to education and a new life in the arms of Holy Mother Church. Twelve-year-old Alexander, son of a sheepherder, found himself in a world that should have only existed in tales. In the novice's dormitory, he'd wept in confusion and homesickness while the townsmen's sons who had been groomed for this life sneered at him.

Most of his fellows from the villages proved unable to keep up with the lessons or were simply unable to adjust to the opulent and treacherous world of the Vatican. Three had run away and vanished. Five slipped into the position of servants to the nobler born, and one had been found in far too familiar relations with the wrong man's daughter and then "fell into the Tiber against his will."

Only three of the transplants prospered. Giuseppe fell in with the archivists and now spent happy days among the manuscripts. Luigi revealed an unexpected talent with numbers, which brought him to the attention of the financiers.

Alexander one day found himself in the Pantheon, the immense domed building that dated from the Caesars. He was staring up at the Ocular at the top of the dome, murmuring to himself, "But how does it stay up?" To his embarrassment, a man nearby began to explain it. Three hours later, he was late returning to the novice's dormitory but had agreed to study architecture with Signore Bramante. He and his compatriots were still expected to serve at the various Masses and wherever else the Master of Novices decreed, but Alexander, at last, no longer cursed the day he'd been taken from his familiar world.

He was running down a side corridor in the Papal Palace, hurrying from a class to the Basilica, where he was expected to assist one of the Cardinals with the midday Mass. At seventeen he was getting a little old for altar boy duties, but he kept putting off his ordination as a full priest. He would have to decide soon. Maestro Bramante would take him as a full-time student, but he hated to give up the magic and joy of serving the Mass.

Choices. Five years ago the only choice he saw was following in his father's steps. Now he had too many choi--

He hit something black and red, something that made a loud oofing noise and then threw him to the marble floor.

Alexander blinked and started to roll to his feet. "I'm terribly sorry, I--"

The tip of a sword was pointed at his nose.