I'm sure he would like to know you, too. In more than one sense, probably. I don't know very much about amych's heroes, but still, good story.

Schmoop, of a kind. This week's Open on Sunday drabble challenge is "ice Cream".

Leftovers (referencing I Will Remember You)

The ice cream, a soupy mass, sat on the table. It was liquefying slowly, its butterfat solids breaking down, returning to its original state. The Hyperion's fans were no match for the LA heat.

"Angel?"

His stance caught Cordelia's attention. Shoulders hunched, head bowed, the way a man might stand if he was fighting tears.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I - I just need to get rid of this ice cream."

"Since when do you eat ice cream?"

"It was left over." Something in his face broke. "From when Buffy was here last."

She stared, uncomprehending. This was not her memory.

And, another one. It's been too long since I played with Darla in Tuscany.

Darla

She found him wandering on the lungarno, the full moon bathing Florence in mystery and nacre.

He was pretty, Darla thought, very very pretty; full lips, black-oil eyes, crisp hair. Pretty Italian teenager. Such a lovely treat for a hot night.

She fell into step beside him. Three minutes was all it took to charm him. "Buy me a gelato?" she asked, and he hurried to comply.

In a twisted alleyway near the Palazzo, she dripped gelato on his ruined throat, and licked it off, mixing with his blood. His sightless eyes stared at Darla, at eternity, at ice cream.

unfortunately amych broke me. I -- no, she broke me. I'm broken. With the gah.

t preen It was a BD prezzie for me! t /preen

And what a perfect one it was, too. GUH. Fucking hotttt, man. Blew my circuits.

daym, Deb.

Blew my circuits.

Just what I was hoping to do. t g

Um. I actually read circuits as clitoris for a moment there. Which pretty much sums up my response, I guess.

blushing madly

Deb, gorgeous. Gutting. Literally, in Darla's case.

Fay, you ought to send that piece to Roz. We spent about 90 minutes late-night on the phone Saturday, and I told her about it. So very much guaranteed to make her happy.

because I live in the sainted hope that people are waiting breathlessly for my prose, everything of Nessuno so far since hte last bit. Alexander is at hte mercenary's inn to tell Guglielmo about a message he's brought

The young man dropped his eyes and fidgeted with his goblet. "The presence of Guglielmo il Sanguinante is requested at the Vatican at his soonest convenience. I'm to guide you."

"What, now? I've been out in the sun all day, I don't want to pull on my fancy clothes and go out again. I want a bath and a girl and more wine." He hid his smile at Alexander's discomfort behind his goblet. "Who sent you, anyway?"

"His Excellency Cesare Borgia."

Slowly Guglielmo pulled his feet down. "Cesare sent you." Alexander nodded uneasily. "And what does His Excellency want with me?"

"I don't know, signore. I was told he needed a messenger, I went to his chambers for instructions, he told me to come here and bring you back for a meeting."

He studied the boy carefully. "He asked for me specifically?" Alexander nodded. "Anyone else?"

"No, signore. His Excellency said you were to come alone."

"Oh, he'd like that, I'm sure." Guglielmo watched Alexander as he thought. "Did he mention our little encounter the other day."

"No, signore."

"Stop that. My name's Guglielmo, not signore. Stay here."

He got up headed for the stairs, hoping Isabetta hadn't gotten too far in her "I'm glad you're home" evening greetings.

He heard splashing and laughter when he reached Angelo's door. Maybe a visit to the Vatican was safer than interrupting the pair inside. But dalliance would have to take second place to the extreme inadvisability of going alone into possibly hostile territory without telling anyone. He reluctantly knocked on the door.

"Go away!" Angelo shouted. "I'm busy."

"Business, captain," Guglielmo called back.

An oath, then a bigger splash, then stomping footsteps coming to the door. Angelo pulled the door open, obviously unconcerned about his lack of wardrobe. Behind him, Isabetta squeaked and sank down to neck level in the big wooden tub that sat in the middle of the room. Guglielmo mentally congratulated her for having organized the bringing up and filling of the tub before her lover returned.

"What?" Angelo snapped.

Now that he could lower his voice, Guglielmo was less formal. "The boy was sent by Cesare Borgia, who wants me, specifically, to go up to the palace. Now. Alone."

Angelo frowned. "That's idiocy."

"I agree. But so is refusing."

"What's he want you for?"

"The boy doesn't know. He's waiting to go back with me."

"Alone, eh?" He glanced back thoughtfully at Isabetta and the tub. Isabetta began to pout.

"You can't go," Guglielmo said, fighting a pleased smile. "Me taking one of the men can be shrugged off as wanting a body guard. Me taking you is a threat."

"And so is summoning you at the end of the day." Angelo thought some more. "You'll take one of the men?"

Guglielmo nodded. "Is Thomas around?"

"He's not much less of a liability. But he is out in the stables. He can help pick someone to go with you."

"I'll check with him." He grinned at Angelo as he turned to go. "If I'm not home by morning, check the Tiber."

"Will . . ." Guglielmo turned around completely. Angelo stood in the doorway to watch him. "Be careful."

"Always."

Angelo closed the door and Guglielmo strode down the corridor to his room at the other end, yanking his shirt over his head in the interests of time.

"Alessandro!" he yelled when he reached the railing overlooking the main room.

The boy jumped and stared upwards. "Signore?"

"Out in the stableyard is a man named Thomas Wyndham. Find him and tell him I need someone to go up to the palace with me. Oh, and tell him he can't go."

"But--you're supposed to go alone."

He grinned and tossed his shirt in the general direction of a laundry basket standing in the corridor. "You may have noticed that I'm not the kind of man who generally does as he's told."

"But--"

"Shoo." He began worrying at the knot in the laces that held his hose together. "The longer you take the longer His Excellency has to wait." The laces finally came undone.

Alexander suddenly blushed and scurried for the door. Guglielmo nodded in approval as he pushed down the hose and pulled off his boots before continuing down to his room.

Out in the stableyard, Alexander took a moment to pull himself together. He had truly fallen into a den of iniquity. Loose women and shameless men. He knew things happened up at the Vatican that contradicted everything Father Riccardo at home had told him about how a man of God should behave, but he'd always been able to avoid such things. He hadn't dreamed that obeying His Excellency's orders would give him such a list of things he'd have to tell his confessor.

He knew to avert his eyes from the whores in the streets, but that girl, Isabetta, had seemed so friendly and pleasant that it had taken him several moments to realize how fascinatingly low-cut her bodice was. And he shouldn't have watched the way she and Captain Angelo, well, greeted each other.

Shaking himself, he forced his mind back to his instructions. Find the man Thomas Wyndham, tell him Il Sanguinante needed someone to accompany him to the palace in direct contradiction of the orders His Excellency had sent. Alexander sighed in frustration. Giuseppe didn't have days like this down in the archives.

A group of men sat in the shade of the stables, drinking wine and tossing dice. One of them looked up at Alexander's approach. "Looking for something, little priest?" he asked in a mostly friendly voice.

"Yes, I'm looking for Thomas Wyndham."

The man farthest back in the shadows stepped forward. "I am he. What do you want?"

Alexander fought to keep from fidgeting. This man was making no pretensions to being friendly. "Signore Guglielmo told me--"

"Guglielmo sent you?" Wyndham interrupted.

"Yes, he did." It was getting very hard to be polite with all the stress he was under. "He wanted me to tell you that he's going up to the Palace and he wants someone to go with him. And he told me to tell you that you can't go."

The other men gasped a little, but Alexander didn't care. Thomas Wyndham raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon? I'm not *allowed* to go?"

Once upon a time, Alexander might have had the sense to be nervous at the man's tone of voice. "That's what he said. You're not allowed to go. Actually, no one's supposed to go with him. Those were the instructions, he's supposed to go alone."

"Ah. One of those situations." Wyndham looked at the other men. "Well, gentlemen? Who doesn't have plans this evening?"

The men muttered together. "Maurice is drunk. Already? What about Paolo? Out with Jeanne."

Wyndham stood patiently, though one foot did tap occasionally. "Well?"

A dark, scarred man stepped forward. "Looks like it's my turn, Thomas."

"Thank you, Giancarlo." Wyndham looked at Alexander. "Did Guglielmo say how long he'd be?"

"I--he was taking off his clothes right before I came out here." Alexander knew he was blushing badly. "How long does he take to change clothes?"

The man was definitely fighting a grin. "Depends on if he has a better reason to stay out of his clothes than putting on other ones."

The mercenaries snickered, and Alexander wished he hadn't been running late for Maestro Bramante's class when Cesare Borgia's servant had come looking for messenger. He ran over the parts of a classical Greek entablature in his mind to distract himself.

Guglielmo came out the door, dressed in his black and red finery. His black velvet hat was crooked, he was wiggling his feet to get the boots settled correctly, and his scabbarded sword was tucked under his right arm. "Sandro, tie this." He held out his left arm with the dangling ties for his cuffs.

Fighting a growl, Alexander obeyed. "My name is Alexander."

"I doubt that's what the priest in your home village said at your baptism," Guglielmo grinned. He juggled his sword into his left hand and held out his right arm to be tied.

When did this man stop being a notorious cold-blooded killer and become an obnoxious annoyance? "Are you ready?" He cinched the right-hand knot down as tight as he could.

Guglielmo grinned at Thomas Wyndham. "Am I ready? Who did you find?"

Wyndham quietly re-tied the right-hand cuff into something looser. "Giancarlo's going with you. Did you want to take horses?"

"Better not. I'd want to take someone to watch the horses as well, and that's pushing the numbers. Besides, I doubt Brother Sandro can ride."

Mustn't hit the dangerous mercenary, mustn't hit the dangerous mercenary. "I can too ride," Alexander said as calmly as he could.

"Plow horses don't count." He patted Alexander's shoulder as he looked Giancarlo over. "You'll do. You have your sword?"

One of the men in the stable tossed out a sheathed long sword and belt. Giancarlo caught it and strapped it onto his back. "Yes."

Guglielmo slid his sword into its spot on his right hip, checked the dagger on his left hip, then tugged back his left sleeve to check the dagger strapped to that wrist. "L