post some fic, go to bed

Normally only the guards and servants walked the corridors of the Apostolic Palace in the deep watches of the nights. Anyone else encountered when all others were supposed to be asleep were those on business better left unquestioned.

Especially Inquisitors. Monsignor Lewes made no real effort to avoid observers as he walked down the corridor to his private chambers. It was almost amusing, the way people found business elsewhere when he passed by.

Once he was in his rooms, he locked the door with a sigh of relief. The effort of watching everyone was exhausting. Here in his chambers he'd taken steps to make sure he would not be disturbed so that his soul could stretch. He removed his cloak and boots, then went to his private altar and knelt.

The crucifix attached to the wall was very old. Christ was clearly suffering from his tortures, but his face was serene, gazing up to Heaven and accepting the torment as a necessary price. Monsignor Lewes found the piece very comforting.

"Thy shoulders are eternally strong and broad, Lord," he murmured, "but I feel a coward for wanting to lay my burdens on top of Thine. I chose this path, the work is worthy and the need is great. These blasphemies must be stopped. But all eyes follow me in suspicion, and those I can trust are far away. But Thou art always with me. Keep me mindful of Thy blessings and Thy strength. I don't do this work alone."

He crossed himself and rose. Across the room from the altar, he turned his hand so that the seal ring on his left thumb was pressed against a section of wall. "Knock, and the door shall be opened," he said. A small popping sound, and a door appeared in the wall.

The small room beyond had not been created by the architects of the Palace. Lewes' predecessors had crafted the space carefully and made sure that its secrets were passed on. Mere suspicion of the room's existence would result in very difficult questions.

Here, though, Lewes could finally relax completely. Old wards guarded the room from detection, and as far as the Monsignor could tell, there was no one else in the Palace who even had the ability to check for such things. In this room and this room alone, Henry Lewes could let his true self loose and let his magic run free.

Practice of the Arts was contrary to church law. He ran the very real risk of the Question himself for simply possessing some of the items in this room. The books alone were a heresy charge apiece. He sat at the small desk and mused nostalgically on his comrades back in England. A small pink crystal sat in a bowl on a nearby shelf, but it wasn't glowing to show that someone wanted to contact him, and homesickness was insufficient reason to use it.

If the situation here continued as he was afraid it would, though, he might have reason to contact England himself. The stars were in a very worrisome configuration, strange omens were whispered of in the back hallways, and occasionally Lewes caught the stench of true, diabolic evil. The Palace was full of the commonplace reek of human evil, of corruption and greed and lust and all the mortal sins. This, though, was truly Other.

He scolded himself for slipping into the error of confusing the authentically demonic with the tales of fallen Lucifer preached by his colleagues. Much of the Biblical story was true, as far as it went, but there was as much that was the veneer applied by a millennia and a half of folklore, competing philosophies, and the biases of the ones who had control of the pens. Lewes often wanted to laugh at his Inquisitorial brethren, but he was generally too busy choking back tears of rage and frustration.

True demons and monsters stalked the earth, and the Holy Office was persecuting Jews and eccentrics. Not once in his official duties had Lewes seen anyone who was guilty of the evil he knew was in the world. No, those folk were too clever to be caught by the clumsy justice of the Church. Lewes wanted to leave, but he was often the only thing standing between an innocent and the flames. One of those innocents had been a young girl suddenly beset by visions of monsters and who was certain she was called to vanquish the fiends. Her family had given her to the Inquisition after flogging failed to drive the demons from her, but she remained adamant. Lewes remembered very clearly the look on her face when he'd released her from her cell in the middle of the night and he whispered to her that the monsters were real and, yes, she had been Chosen.

He'd saved her. Two others, not yet Chosen but suffering from the dreams, had been judged possessed. Their deaths under the testing was considered proof of their essential righteousness, and the Holy Office had congratulated itself on freeing the girls' souls from torment. Lewes had divested himself of every indication of his Church affiliation and lost himself in a tavern for three days.

No one currently in the custody of the Holy Office was in danger of loss of life, though their persecution smacked more of petty revenge than of the pursuit of righteousness. What worried Lewes was some hints in various prophecies referring to gathering evil. He picked up the small stack of parchments from his worktable.

The top document referred to a young man bearing a conqueror's name and who was known as The One Who Sees. He would appear at the end of the century and be instrumental in binding the forces of Hell. Unfortunately, the prophecy had been written in 1247 and neglected to say *which* century this seer would appear in. Still, there was the boy he'd met, Alexander. Best to keep an eye on him.

The next prophecy was more immediately worrying. A king among vampires, walking as if by right in the halls of power, with a powerful prince bringing him the tools with which to bring forth the torments of Hell. This prince, it was written, was in full knowledge of the creature he served and saw only the way to his own advancement.

Sacrifices were spoken of, both of innocence and of corruption. Lewes' sources, both written and speaking, were vague on the details, and he was getting the impression that his questions were becoming inconvenient. He'd been in the Jewish quarter tonight, hoping one of the scholars there would have manuscripts with new information, but he'd made the mistake of wearing cleric's garb. He hated the fear he saw in their eyes.

He shuffled his papers together again, too tired to make any more sense of it tonight. A quick but sincere prayer for guidance, and then off to bed for him. He couldn't Watch if he couldn't keep his eyes open.

Buffista Redball, Con't,

“Let me see that ME’s report again,” Bayliss asked.

“ What’s that, Bayliss?” Munch asked. “The third or fourth time since yesterday? You might want to consider a hobby...or a woman or something.”

“They’re kind of the same to you, aren’t they, John? But then you let the air out and put them back under your bed.”Kay said, winking at Munch. “Here you go, Timmy. Knock yourself out.”

”She doesn’t mean that literally,” Pembleton said.

“Ha, ha.” Tim said. “Wow, her throat was kind of swollen. Did she have any kind of allergies?”

“Take your pick, according to the husband.” Munch said. “Nuts, metals, you name it.”

“My gut tells me this was anaphylactic shock.”

“Well, then,” Pembleton said. “I guess we can all go home. Kay, don’t forget to write a witness statement for Bayliss’ *gut*.”

“Hey,” Kay said. “We’re all on the same side...we’re all bunkies here.”

“And it’s fucking great,” Munch said. “But not great for fucking.”

“Could you give it a rest?”

“Sure. Tell me I’m wrong, and I will.”

“Honest to God...”

“If anyone needs me, I’ll be in the ballroom.”

“We’ll muddle through, tateleh,”

“Now, what’d you have to do that for? You know how sensitive he is.”

“That’s why it’s so easy, Kay. Didn't you learn anything in school?”

Tim Bayliss had seen a lot in his time in the Homicide squad. But he was still unprepared for the spectacle of several tattooed gorgeous women slipping some kind of necklace around his neck and yelling “Excuse me. You have too much candy...”

Then they nibbled him in ways that usually involved three dates and a bottle of Montrachet. He blushed. He blushed even harder when he heard the women say:

“Who is he? He looks kind of familiar but I can’t place him...he’s kind of foamy, though.”

“Somebody’s DH, maybe?”

“He was blushing. Isn’t that the cutest thing *ever*? If somebody doesn’t claim him, I’ll take him to my lair and corrupt him.”

“Or slash him with Wesley...”

“Six of one...” And they laughed fiendishly.

“Can I help you with your candy burden?”

“Maybe later...Tim Bayliss, Homicide.”

“You’re a detective. Investigate whatever you want, Inspector Hottie.
” “Thank you, but I actually have questions...”

“Is this anything?” Tep says, pulling a card out of her purse...”I found it when everything happened and I forgot.”

It was a card that read “No Hard Feelings” and was signed by somebody from a San Francisco newspaper.

Oh, my. I wonder who I pissed off at the Chronicle?

This week's Open on Sunday drabble challenge is "beginnings". Warning: unregenerate schmoop.

In a perfect world...

She's got bats the size of luna moths in her stomach. Nervous doesn't begin to describe it.

What to say? How to begin?

She signs in at the desk, lets the security guard check her suitcase for ordinance. She heads for the private elevator to his office. Her mind is running possibilities, scenarios, opening lines. She discards cute ones, coy ones, sincere ones, painful ones. She's left with nothing at all.

The elevator doors whisper open. He glances up, and drops what he's holding.

"Buffy!"

"Angel." Suddenly the perfect opening is there. "I'm a cookie. Let's start from scratch, okay?"

Another beginnings drabble.

First Darkness, First Slayer

They took her from her family. They took her from the desert.

They took her to a sacred place, a circle of darkness, a place of loss and tears and paralysing fear.

They took her voice from her, her rights, her oneness.

They gave her to darkness. They gave her power, dominion over that darkness.

They gave her power that they themselves would never understand: sourceless, infinite, beyond rationalisation or reclamation.

They offered no bargains. They offered no escape, no loopholes. This was a kind of rape, this taking.

She, and all who followed her, gave them back the night.

Deb, you write great schmoop. The second drabble is great too, dark and creepy.

Yeah, well, Buffy-Angel schmoop, I know, I know, I ought to know better.

Ah, fuck it. I don't know better. You'll notice I called it "in a perfect world..."

BuffyNAngle4Evar!!!!!! For realz, yo!!!!

I like the drabbles. Both of them. I would hate for Buffy+Angel to have been final canon, but I love it in fic, for some reason.

And the first slayer is always interesting.

I've just always felt that, considering all the stone-cut shite that poor girl had to deal with, the least she could expect at the end of the long dance of Slayerness is the hot stud she dropped her cherry with.

I mean, it's only fair.