very clever with maracas

Real life, fanfiction, and an apology

Sat, 02 Feb 2008 02:12:47 GMT

I'll start with the apology. I am so sorry. Like countless other enthusiastic young writers, I became involved in the fanfic community with no thought to how life would interfere, and posted several unfinished stories with the intent to finish them all 'someday'. Someday has become so vague to me that I have to state now, officially, that I have no clue when I will ever get around to finishing my stories. I'm taking a full courseload at school in order to transfer to a CSU as soon as humanly possible, I've started a new relationship with a fascinating person, and I work when I'm not at school or studying. There is no way for me to even contemplate finishing these stories that became so dear to me when I started them.

My Yahoo! Group will be shut down with a similar apology, and an open invitation stands to fanfiction authors who have the time and interest to adopt any of my three stories (and the theoretical sequel to Hammurabi).

This will be my last post; however, I will respond to offers to adopt my stories.

edit: (starbucksmocha has adopted my Harry Potter stories)

I shall miss this, and miss all of you.

JeansVenus

bizarre spelling choices of the fen

Sat, 11 Aug 2007 04:43:16 GMT

..."Tourchured"?

..."Felt his arm brake"?

..."Kidnaped"?

I can appreciate the need for beta readers, but...this is above and beyond heinous. Now that my brain is oozing that special kind of FF.net acid, I'm extra glad I paid attention in AP English. It sure helps with the rewrites.

And yeah. I really did see someone spell "tortured" that way. Sad, isn't it?

Love,

JeansVenus

I can't believe I'm doing this.

Wed, 08 Aug 2007 21:56:54 GMT

It's a massive project. My first fanfiction (which is still a WIP) has a lot of raw potential--and has been sitting idle in ficwad and HPFandom for a couple months. There's a lot I need to do with it to make it as good as it can be. So...that's what I'm doing. I've taken it down from HPFandom and I'm rewriting every chapter, expanding where I see fit, adding new viewpoints and stretching out the timeline. It needs doing, because otherwise I'm going to keep looking at this bastard and cringing.

It's my priority right now. I do have a couple rough drafts of chapters for my Spander fic done, but I'm going to ignore that for the most part because I have to concentrate on something. I'm pretty bad like that. Yeah.

I expect I'll be doing a lot of ducking and dodging of flailing slaps headed my way, but...it's time for me to return to the fic I started in the first place and never frigging finished.

Everything gets done. Always. I always finish a story. Which is why I'm feeling massive amounts of guilt regarding my HP fanfic. It's stagnating, and that's just not like me.

Please forgive. I'm coming back as soon as I'm done with my other responsibilities. *sigh* I hate being responsible.

J.V.

Obviously that core of inner strength likes to pillage and plunder...

Sun, 15 Jul 2007 00:01:10 GMT

Are You Damned?

Valhalla

You will die a warrior and be spirited away by warbling wenches to the Hall of the Slain. Meat and mead for ever more, well until Ragnarok, anyway, when you will do battle with giants, giantesses, dwarfs, elves and Nidhug, a dragon who likes to nibble trees. Odin is great!

Are You Damned?

Original Fic, HP Fic, and NANY

Wed, 11 Jul 2007 04:52:13 GMT

I have an original story that I'm working on right now...it's been in the works for a few (read: several) months. I love this story, it is my baby. My characters are all fucked up slackers who can make a better latte or mixed drink than anyone's business, but they can't commit, finish school, or say an honest word to their parents. Strangely enough, it works. :) There's Daniel, the English guy who took off from Oxford and is living in San Francisco on his parents' credit card just because he can--and they think he's at UCSF for the year. There's Leo, who's freakishly tall and pretends he believes whatever Daniel tells him, because hey, would friends lie? And there's Maggie, whose rent just went up, and she can't believe she was sweet-talked into letting some fucking asshole slacker move in, because he doesn't know the meaning of the word work.

This story is the first in a series of interconnected tales revolving around Maggie's apartment, the cafe she and Leo work at, and the student center where Daniel does an impressive job pretending to attend college.

And to think...it all started this last April with the semi-annual visit to San Francisco.

**

Apart from my original fic, I have two fandoms I write in. On LJ, most people see the Buffyverse side of things. Which is way cool, really, because the Buffy thing is new and shiny and I still want to pet it when I see my DVDs lying around.

Jossverse-wise, I'm kind of having an OMGWTFisthisforreal? moment with the feedback regarding my Spander story. Lots of happy cheesy grins at the computer screen where nobody can see them. Happy fun!

Plans for that...not to tease, or to spoil, so...treading a fine line. I do have an issue with underage, so...I'll probably be keeping it at "let's be snarky pissed off good friends and have UST kill us" for several chapters after Spike and Dru arrive in Sunnydale.

I have several major plot points for future chapters already drafted out, and I think it should all work just fine.

**

The HP fandom! How could I forget? *snorts* Like I could. I have that Death Eater Mafia AU story on HPFandom (iz fun), and for my next trick, I shall inflict Snape and Sirius upon each other. Because I'm cool like that.

Regarding my first foray into fanfiction (To Rewrite History, currently sitting pretty at fifteen chapters)...I'm updating it. Irregularly. I've discovered that NANY and The Family Peverell are the preferred stories of the people reading them, so...those are the ones I'm writing for most these days.

**

Did this have a point? Yeah. I think I was waxing ineloquent about my writing projects. *bliss* writing!

Never Already Not Yet 03/?

Sun, 08 Jul 2007 02:23:16 GMT

Title: Never, Already, Not Yet
Series: none
Author: JeansVenus
Email: jeansvenus12@yahoo.com
Archive/Distribution: *incredulous cough* Ah, if you want it...sure, ask me. Otherwise, bloodclaim, my journal, and my personal Yahoo! group
Story Summary: The Powers That Be screwed up badly with Sunnydale. Xander's sent back to the crux without memories of the future.
Chapter Summary: Xander finds a family of sorts, and has a bizarre encounter in the library while telling the rest of the gang what's happening with his dreams. Meanwhile, over in the Czech Republic, Dru tells Spike a story.
Warnings: Some profanity, slash in future chapters.
Rating: FRT this chapter, FRM overall
Disclaimer: If I owned the Buffyverse, I wouldn't be freaking out about paying my college tuition.

Previous chapters can be found here in my memories.

**

Xander and Angel sat side by side on the couch watching the clock. The numbers on the bright green face slipped by much faster than Xander would have liked—faster than Angel would have liked, too, he suspected, as the vampire grew progressively more still and tense as time passed.

Xander fidgeted nervously when the clock switched to five-forty. “Heh. Five minutes left.” He stood and pulled his new blue sweatshirt on over his head. “I have a great idea. Why don’t we skip the show and tell at the library tonight? We could, um, go out for pizza. Or something. I really don’t think this is the greatest idea.”

Angel let his muscles relax just enough to shrug slightly. “We have to tell them about your dreams,” he pointed out. “You could know something useful.”

“Yeah, but—” He risked a peek at the clock again. Damn. Four minutes to sunset. “The freaky dream thing isn’t what has me all bugged. I don’t want any more of my friends to go up in a cloud of dust, okay? If we tell them about me, something’s bound to slip out about you.”

“Don’t worry,” Angel said. He stood as well, and Xander silently handed him his coat. “I’ve been around for two hundred and forty-some years, kid. I can lie with the best of them—and I can protect myself if things do get out of hand.”

“Not reassured, Deadboy,” Xander muttered, following his new friend to the door of the apartment. “In a perfect world, my friends don’t have to worry about lying or killing each other.”

Angel grimaced at the nickname and opened the door. “Yeah, well, it’s not exactly a perfect world.” He waited until Xander reluctantly joined him in the hall outside the apartment before turning back and locking it. “It’s the Hellmouth. Your worries are pretty minor compared to some.”

“Right,” Xander said dryly. “Still not feeling the reassurance. And, you know what? If you see a stake coming at you, do me a favor and duck. Please.”

Something in his voice must have caught Angel’s attention, because the vampire stopped and met his eyes squarely. “I won’t get dusted. You aren’t going to lose another friend that way. Not tonight.”

Xander shifted uncomfortably and started walking toward the elevator, Angel matching his quick strides step for step. The look in Angel’s eyes was something he didn’t want to analyze too closely. It came too close to what he’d always hoped he’d have from his dad—pride, warmth…protection.

“Yeah, well,” he muttered. “I can’t lose my roommate. You’re paying the rent, after all.”

Angel’s small, knowing smile told him his words meant nothing to a guy who could read between the lines.

They rode the elevator down in silence, both lost in their own thoughts. Xander was surprised at how comfortable he was with the lack of words—but then, he had never known anyone who was as content without talking as Angel.

He enjoyed the quiet for a while, all the way out of the elevator and through the doors of the apartment complex. The fading light of dusk lit the buildings and sidewalks, and Angel looked up into the sky and smiled.

“This is my favorite time of day,” he said. He and Xander turned the corner and began the long walk to the high school, their long legs eating up the pavement beneath their feet. “The light is so beautiful at this hour out in the countryside, and at the beach. Everything’s red and purple, right before the night takes over.”

Xander nodded in understanding. “My favorite is that half hour or so right before the sun rises,” he offered. “I’m usually way too lazy to see it, but, uh, there’s a couple times a year that I’m awake for it.” It makes a nice Christmas present, he thought.

“Not many vampires get a chance to appreciate it either,” Angel said. “We’re all too busy watching for that gray-blue light to warn us to head indoors to sit and admire its beauty.” He smiled slightly at Xander’s questioning look. “I’m not just a big scary vampire,” he said jokingly, but his face was serious. “Most of us have more balls than brains, I’ll admit, but I was a Childe of a proper order. Even if my Sire and I left the order, we were still more than demons. There’s always been a superiority complex in our clan.”

“Lots of book smarts, huh?” Xander said.

“Lots of book smarts,” Angel confirmed. “My Childe turned a poet, once.” He chuckled. “Not that he was any good, mind you, but he was Oxford educated. If you met him now, you’d hardly know it.”

“So, you have this whole family out there, I guess,” Xander said wistfully. “Do you miss them? Do you ever see them?”

Angel’s sharp eyes were entirely too perceptive once again. “When you’ve lived for over a century or two, you learn to trust your judgment,” he said instead of answering. “We make our own families—we pick our siblings and children in the space of minutes. It’s instinct.”

Xander turned the words over in his mind. He couldn’t—no. But. He wouldn’t tell me unless—

He stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk and cursed his awkwardly long arms and legs. He really meant it. And that means—

“Think I’ll get to meet the rest of the family?” he said brightly, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Angel reached out to ruffle his hair. “There are a couple worth meeting,” he said. “Just eat garlic beforehand and you’ll be fine.”

Xander laughed happily. “Cool.”

They lapsed back into silence. For the rest of the long walk, Xander snuck peeks at Angel surreptitiously, a goofy smile pasted across his face. Family, huh? Cool. Way cool.

“We need to get a car or something, D—Angel,” Xander said, pushing open the door to the library. “I’m thinking this whole walking a mile to school thing isn’t really my thing.”

“I’m not buying a car just so you can be lazy,” Angel replied calmly. “Deal with it.”

Buffy, Willow, and Giles looked up from their discussion at a table in the back.

“Angel?” Buffy said, startled. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to help Xander,” Angel said. He turned to Giles. “Watcher. You didn’t tell them what I told you over the phone?”

Buffy and Willow looked to Giles, who shook his head. “It’s Xander’s place to tell us the news,” he said. “Xander?”

Four pairs of eyes trained themselves on Xander—three inquisitive, one supportive. He walked over to the table and took a seat, grateful of Angel’s quiet presence at his side.

“So,” he said nervously. He grinned at Willow and Buffy. “Long or short version?”

“Long,” his friends chorused eagerly.

“Hoo boy.” Xander rubbed his left eye absentmindedly. “Um. After that thing with the vamps at the Bronze, I went to Angel’s place last night to sleep it all off.” His eye prickled sharply, and he blinked—was he seeing things?

“Go on,” Giles said impatiently.

“Right, Angel’s place,” Xander said. He stared at the bookshelves behind Willow’s head. There hadn’t been a girl standing there when they’d arrived. The brunette tipped him a sly wink and shush-ed him playfully. “He said I could stay with him, so I camped out on his couch, and I had freaky dreams, and he told me we needed to tell you about them.”

He stopped talking to watch the girl walk over and sit next to Willow at the table. She turned big dark eyes toward him, and his breath caught in his chest. Somehow—somehow he knew her.

“Hello, kitten,” she said clearly. Nobody looked her way but Xander.

“Is that it?” Buffy asked. “That’s the long version?”

“Um,” Xander said. He tore his gaze away from the strange, dark girl no one else could see and looked at Buffy. “I’m moving in with Angel. Because of the dreams. He says he’s going to talk my parents into it.”

Willow smiled in satisfaction. “Good,” she said. “So, what now? This is going to come in handy, I guess, but what did you see?”

The dark haired girl spoke again. “Welcome to the family, little one,” she said with a laugh. “You have such a pretty eye. Daddy’s new son can see like his Dru can hear. Isn’t it exciting?”

Xander knew Angel was looking at him—that they were all looking at him, waiting for him to answer Willow’s question. Dru looked at him, too, and clapped her hands in excitement.

“Our poor dark kitten is hiding his sight!” she exclaimed. “Tell them, brother. The stars will scream at your Dru until you stop hiding.”

“I took a note of what he saw,” Angel said when it became apparent Xander wasn’t going to respond. “What I don’t know is what we’re going to try to stop, and what’s going to happen anyway.” He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Giles.

“This is quite a comprehensive list,” Giles said, “although I do wish it came with names and dates.”

“He’s a seer,” Angel said impatiently. “Have you ever met one before? They don’t get visions that you can notarize and cross-reference. It’s all…flashes and sounds. Previews for the big thing.”

Dru giggled. “I was Angel’s first seer,” she confided to Xander in a stage whisper. “He knows all about stars and voices and flashes and sounds. I told him. Now, though….” She frowned. “Now he has a bright spark in him and it makes him sad.”

“What do you mean?” Xander asked impulsively. Dru gasped and clapped her hands in glee.

“What do you mean, what do I mean?” Angel said.

“Dru?” Xander persisted.

Angel froze. “Is Dru here?” he asked quietly.

Xander nodded to him absently.

“Who’s Dru?” Buffy asked. “And what’s up with the weird staring thing? Is someone supposed to be sitting there?”

“Make his nasty spark stop hurting him,” Dru said seriously. “He’ll lose his spark someday. You saw it. I heard it. It will happen. When it goes away, you will matter most.”

“How?” Xander asked. “I don’t get it.”

“That’s two of us,” Willow said. She looked at the seat next to her uneasily.

Giles coughed to get everyone’s attention. “What I know of seers is that they are highly coveted by many demons,” he said. “We’ll need to protect him.”

Angel shook his head. “He needs to be taught how to protect himself. We can’t teach him to rely on everyone to defend him.”

“And I suppose you’ll train him?” Giles said with some asperity. “He’s a teenage boy, Mr. ‘Angel’. You don’t give sixteen-year-olds extra weapons to go along with their hormones.”

“Pot, kettle,” Angel said. He inclined his head at Buffy. She frowned, thinking she was being insulted, but he gave her one of his small smiles and she relaxed. “Buffy has been Chosen to fight evil on one of the worst places a human being could live. Xander has, for some reason, also been chosen—not as a warrior, but to receive visions. If we want him to stay alive on the Hellmouth, we have to teach him—and Willow here—how to fight.”

“You know how,” Dru said. She smiled and stood up from her seat. “You’re already doing it, kitten. It’s a pretty color near him, now. It doesn’t jangle my head nearly as much.” She leaned across the table and kissed his forehead lightly. “Spike and I will see you soon. Don’t worry, pretty, you don’t have to eat garlic before we come to play.”

Xander watched her fade back into the stacks of books with a sense of relief. His left eye immediately stopped prickling.

“Dru’s gone,” he said. “She says she and Spike are going to come visit us, Angel.”

Angel broke off his argument with Giles and turned back to Xander, worry and concern written across his face. “Did—did she say anything else?”

“Yeah,” he said. He elbowed the vampire in the ribs discreetly. “It’s not stuff I can really talk about…here…you know?”

“Oh,” Angel said. He nodded. “Okay.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Subtlety, thy name is not Xander.” She paused. “Or Angel, for that matter.”

Xander grinned. “Yeah, but where would you be without us?”

“Someplace very boring,” she said.

“If you don’t mind focusing for just a moment,” Giles interrupted. “What do you propose we do with this list?”

Xander took the sheet of paper and scanned the neatly written points. “This first one, I don’t know what it’s about, but it has to happen,” he said decisively. “I have a feeling about it.”

“It sounds like animal possession,” Giles said. He looked sternly at Xander from over his glasses. “Are you certain that this must come to pass?”

“Yeah,” Xander said. “Just, ah, stock up on tranquilizer darts or something. When it happens—don’t banish it. You’ll know what to do.” He realized with a strange jolt that he sounded like Dru. He shook his head and attempted to clarify things. “There’ll be more than just me with this happening, if that makes sense to you. Banish theirs quickly.”

Buffy shrugged. “Tranquilizers, banish some, don’t banish others. Got it. Next?”

Giles huffed at her impatience, but Xander grinned. “I’m on it. Next—vampires. Angel?”

“The ‘blonde woman’ is one of the older members of the Order of Aurelius,” Angel said flatly. “Her name is Darla. She was sired by the Master himself. She’s very dangerous. Buffy, do not go after her by yourself.”

“Any reason why?” she asked flippantly.

Angel stared her down. “She is the immediate head of a branch of the Order that broke off in seventeen fifty-six,” he said. “The youngest Childe in that line has killed two Slayers already, and he’s over two hundred years younger than she is.”

“Okay, I can see teaming up for this one,” she said. She nodded firmly. “Yeah. Teamwork is a good thing.”

“What about the other vampires?” Willow asked. Her face was set in stubborn, mulish lines.

Xander sighed. “You’re my absolute best friend, and I mean it when I say there’s nobody in our school who’s smarter, but Willow—you have to stop with the whole ‘I hate vampires’ thing. They aren’t all the same.”

“They took J—they took him from us,” she said angrily. “You can’t tell me you’re going to defend them? They’re killers.”

“I’m going to play the patently unfair seer card and tell you that I know for a fact that not all vampires are evil,” Xander said softly.

Willow crossed her arms stubbornly.

“Focus, please,” Giles pleaded. “The other vampires, Angel?”

“They aren’t going to be a problem,” Xander said quickly. He forced himself not to back down when all the attention was turned back to him. “No, really. They’re, um. They’re okay…well, not entirely okay, because they’re vampires, but they’re not going to go all ‘grr’ and try to kill everyone.”

“Do they have an agenda?” Giles asked.

Xander shrugged. “They aren’t here now, but they’re probably just going to come and visit family.”

Angel added under his breath so that only Xander could hear, “And get drunk, and pick fights, and turn animals, and cheat at cards, and brew tea with holy water, and read my books in the bathtub.”

“Visit family?” Buffy said blankly.

“Vampires have families?” Willow added. She looked skeptical.

Angel shook his head at their ignorance, and Giles spoke up uneasily.

“Yes, Willow, vampires have families. Older vampires in particular can be very clannish, and keep track of the whereabouts of their Childer and their Sires out of familial affection.”

“So…these other two are just on a family reunion road trip?” Buffy said. She looked at Angel and Xander. “That’s pretty weird.”

Xander unconsciously echoed Angel’s words from earlier in the evening. “It’s the Hellmouth, Buff. Compared to some stuff, that’s kind of minor.”

“True. Hey, we doing school tomorrow? I’m going to need some help with history, if anyone’s up for a good study session later tonight.”

Giles closed his eyes wearily. “Are we going to finish discussing this list tonight?”

“Nope,” Buffy said cheerfully. “Sorry, Giles. My library tolerance period just ran out. Willow? My place?”

“Sure,” she said quickly. She stood and shot an unreadable look at Xander. “Let’s go.”

Xander watched the girls walk out the door before turning back to Giles and Angel. “Sorry, man, but we have to walk back to his place.” He yawned. “And like Buffy said, I have to ‘do school’ tomorrow. Do you mind if I stop by during lunch or something to finish talking with you?”

Giles flapped a hand at them, resigned. “Go on. I’ll keep looking at your list.”

Angel and Xander stood up from the table and walked silently to the door.

“I told you it would be okay,” Angel said as soon as they were outside the library.

“Yeah, yeah, says you right now,” Xander retorted. “Wait until Giles does enough digging on Darla and her line.”

Angel seemed to draw into himself at Xander’s words. “Where’d you hear that?”

“It wasn’t hard to put together,” Xander said. “For someone who tries to be cryptic, you aren’t very good at it. Giles is going to figure it out, and we’re going to be in trouble.”

“You worry too much,” Angel said. He reached out to mess up Xander’s hair again, and Xander ducked, grinning.

“I worry enough, thanks.”

They walked along quietly for a while, listening to their footfalls and the noises of the streets around them.

“What did Dru have to say?” Angel said finally.

Xander perked up. “Lots,” he said. “It was so cool. I couldn’t believe I could see her. I mean, she was just sitting there talking to me. Weird or what? So, yeah, she had a lot to tell me.”

And he spun out the story over the long city blocks to his fascinated audience of one.

Welcome to the family. That’s what she said. He smiled, and then grinned when Angel smiled back. Maybe things are looking up.

In an abandoned barn a mile outside of Děčín, a lazy midnight conversation began once again. Shadows streaked the walls, bleaching wood and painting hay bales white in the moonlight. The beautiful, bloody couple lay on blankets in the darkest shadow and promised one another the world.

A giggle rang out through the rafters.

“I’m serious, love. When we get to Prague, I’ll take you wherever you like.” The man stretched on his makeshift bed and pulled the woman tightly to his side. “Midnight concerts, posh hotels, museums…anywhere that strikes your fancy.”

The woman looked up at her companion with dark, hazy eyes. “Will you take me to the doll shops, Spike? They make such pretty dolls.”

Spike laughed quietly. “Yeah, Dru. I’ll take you to the doll shops, too.”

Dru stared out across the barn. A frown creased her pale forehead. “Everyone is deaf. Nobody hears what the stars say.”

“Nobody but you,” Spike responded. “You hear them just fine, don’t you, love? You have special ears.”

“The stars and moon and wind and blood all taste like the same thing,” she said. She turned back to Spike and smiled at him. “They taste different than before. Something happened.”

Spike sat up. “What’s that then? What happened?”

She shook her head and giggled again. “It happened yesterday, Spike, and it happened—years after tomorrow. Poor boy. What a pretty kitten he is, so bright and sharp and happy, with all the darkness in his eye.”

“We going to meet this kitten of yours?” Spike asked. He looked at her with jealousy and hunger.

“Mm, my sweet Spike. He is my kitten,” she purred and scratched at his shoulder playfully. “Grr! A lovely boy, all in that lovely eye. But he is mine for the dreams. We can taste starlight together and see something special.”

“Where’s your boy going to be when we find him?”

Dru pulled him down onto the blankets beside her. “He will know us. We won’t need to search at all. Everything is pulling, pushing, sending us where we must go—and we must go, Spike. It must happen.”

He kissed her, hard and angry, tasting the blood still lingering on her tongue from the hour previous. “Must happen, huh? Lead on, princess. You know I’ll follow you anywhere.”

She ran a hand through his cropped hair, staring at the bright glow of near white in the dark of the shadows. “He came back for you, dear Spike. My dark kitten dreams of pain and blood and campfires in ancient places, but he doesn’t know.”

“Yeah? Tell me,” he said. His anger toward the mysterious ‘dark kitten’ receded at her words. “Let’s have a story, Dru.”

“Once upon a time, in a kingdom that sits on Hell’s lips, a brave, smart, dark boy was born. His mummy and daddy didn’t love him enough. They forgot their boy, and he became braver and smarter on his own.”

Spike stared up at the rafters, lost in her words.

“He had two lovely friends. Like little kittens, all of them, bouncing and playing and snuggling and fighting. One was a pretty ginger kitten, with more spark than anyone knew. The other was feisty and brown and so loyal.” She poked Spike’s side. “You must remember these kittens, Spike. They will be important later.”

“Yes, Dru,” he said obediently.

Teeth flashed in the dark as she yawned. “Remind me to tell you more tomorrow. I have to dream tonight. I have to be with him.”

“Whatever you say, love,” Spike murmured.

Before she slipped off to sleep, she whispered in his ear, “Don’t be jealous. He came back for you.”

Rusted out shells of ancient Soviet farm equipment bore witness to Spike’s sleepless night. They guarded the door of the abandoned barn, threshing teeth and jagged wheels looking strangely…demonic, almost, in the moonlight.

"He came back for you." Spike wished that sometimes Dru were just a tiny bit saner, because he didn't understand what she was saying in the slightest.

Hammurabi Part 2: response to werewindle's 3 little words challenge

Sun, 01 Jul 2007 17:25:30 GMT

Title: Hammurabi
Author: JeansVenus
Archive/Dist: my group and personal journal, bloodclaim, and windles-orbit. If you want it, ask.
Summary: Spike thinks he's driven someone to suicide, and goes to Angel to repent. Angel finds himself forced into a role he never thought he'd have to play again.
Spoilers: Up to Season 4 of Buffy
Warnings: Graphic violence/torture, mention of non-con, language, and Angel doing the brooding guilt thing.
Rating: FRAO. Seriously.
Disclaimer: If I owned the Jossverse, would I worry about my college tuition? Probably not.

The first half is here. (The one-shot was too long for a single entry, so I had to cut it in half in a convenient location).

Xander peeled away from the Magic Box, shouting reassurances over his shoulder to Willow out the open car window.

“I owe you, Wills! Slave labor! Spike’s all yours! Me too!”

Willow’s reply was lost to the empty street, and Xander gunned the engine of his friend’s car with an urgency that took him by surprise.

Spike would walk into a room, find a body, and completely lose his head, he thought. He fought down a half-hysterical giggle. Idiot.

The car fairly flew past the city limit and onto the highway. Damn, damn, damn. He knew, with a queasy certainty, exactly what Spike was doing in Los Angeles right at that moment.

Hindsight was chilling in its clarity. He recalled Spike’s offhand words one night a few weeks before. In yet another attempt to break down the painful, awkward wall between then, the vampire had brought up vampire lore, and with it, King Hammurabi the Great.

“He had the first written code of law. Bloke wasn’t a vampire, but he might as well have been.” Spike had given him a cocky grin and stretched languidly in the chair. “‘Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth,’ and so on. Well. That was our kind of justice, right? Anyway, if a vampire figures he’s done something that can’t be fixed easily, and he wants to atone for it, he goes to his Sire and asks to have the sin taken out of his flesh. Practical system, don’t you think?”

Xander had felt not intrigued but trivialized, not worth an apology, definitely not worth Hammurabi and his violent form of repatriation.

“Fascinating,” he had said flatly.

Spike had heard the unsteady note in Xander’s voice and desisted in his nightly attempt to talk early. But he had a strange, pensive look on his face for the rest of the week.

Xander swore loudly in the confines of the borrowed car, swerving to pass a slow-moving minivan on the right.

He was thinking of doing this crazy eye for an eye thing weeks ago. He must have been.

He gripped the steering wheel with hands slick with sweat.

I want to hate him. I want to hate him so much. Truth is, I would’ve forgiven the bastard months ago if he’d just fucking apologized.

* * *

“Well now, apologizing in such a manner is never fun, is it, Will,” Angel said evenly.

The smile slid from Spike’s face. Fear flickered in his red-streaked eyes. “’S bloody terrifying,” he admitted.

Angel reached for the button of his Childe’s jeans. He was certain, as he pulled the fly open, that his heart had completely iced over. He set his jaw and pulled the jeans down to Spike’s knees with spare, efficient jerks. A pair of briefs followed.

Spike groaned aloud at the broken bones in his ankle ground against each other at the harsh treatment.

Angel scoffed. “This is terrifying, Childe? This, which you asked for? No. What the Harris lad felt was terror. What you feel, Will, is guilt.”

The younger vampire gritted his teeth, little soft cries trapped behind his locked jaw.

Oh, Will. Angel stared up at his favorite, prodigal Childe, dangling from the ceiling limply. Blood trickled down his arm and matted his shirt to his chest. He was naked from waist to knees, one foot hanging at a nauseating angle. His pale skin seemed luminescent in the poor light of the basement. Skinny hipbones jutted out at him; softly furred testicles drew back in fear. Am I to…defile this again, after so long? Will, you could ask me for anything. Must you ask me to damn myself further?

He held a cupped hand beneath Spike’s chin. “Spit,” he commanded.

Spike let a long, viscous trail of blood and saliva drip into his Sire’s palm. Angel swiped two fingers through the bloody spit perfunctorily and reached around Spike’s side to slip them between the cheeks of his ass.

“Guilt,” he continued, pressing both fingers into his Childe’s tension-tight hole roughly. Spike jerked painfully in the handcuffs, and a fresh stream of blood ran down his arm. “Of all the stupid, cruel things you could’ve learned from me, it had to be that one, didn’t it, Will?”

He pulled at the ring of muscle with casual violence until it slackened. Above him, Spike whimpered. He pulled the long, dull railroad spike from his belt and wiped his damp palm along the length of the nail.

“Stupid and cruel,” he repeated, and drove the spike into his Childe’s anus, swiftly and painfully.

Spike jerked violently again, jarring his ankle. A muffled screech broke free from his clenched jaw.

Angel pulled on the head of the overlong nail to slip it from Spike’s body, then slammed it back in. “And you a Master Vampire in your own right,” he lectured as he thrust the iron spike in again and again. “Did you think Harris was one of us for a moment? That he had our morals? That he’d forgive and forget your poorly timed lust? He was a human, William!”

Each thrust of the spike sent the younger vampire into another agonizing spasm toward the ceiling. A steady drip-drip-drip of blood onto the concrete below added a sticky counterpoint to Angel’s admonishment.

“Not so powerful or lusty when you can’t fight back, is it?” Angel asked tauntingly. “In fact, it’s downright humiliating. Isn’t it, William?”

Spike nodded jerkily. Tears rolled down his anguished, embarrassed face. “Yes,” he whispered, throat raw from fighting back his screams. “Humiliating.”

“D’ you still think it makes you the bigger man, forcing yourself on someone like Harris?”

The reply was ghost-quiet, and Angel had to strain to hear it. “No. No.”

Angel nodded and pulled the spike free completely, with a soft wet sound that made him shudder inwardly. He dropped it to the floor unceremoniously.

“Then you have atoned, and I forgive you.”

He took the stained sock and gently wiped the blood from Spike’s inner thighs. With a light touch he’d avoided using since the start of the violence, he eased Spike’s jeans back up over his hips and zipped them shut, thumbing the button deftly back into its hole.

Spike peered at him through red, weepy eyes. “You…forgive me?”

Angel mustered up a small smile for the heartbreaking, heartbroken figure suspended in front of him. “Will, Childe, you are forgiven.” He narrowed his eyes at Spike when the declaration failed to bring him peace. “But not, it seems, by your own self.”

Spike’s voice cracked on his words. “I don’t have any right to forgive myself.”

“And that’s what I want t’ know,” Angel said. “Why is it you feel so guilty for getting that revenge you wanted? Why atone for the death of a man you hated?”

“I—I think I’d like that gag of yours now,” Spike said with a weak chuckle.

“No, lad,” Angel said sharply. “You’ll talk. And you’ll not come down until you do.” He regarded his Childe patiently. “I can wait.”

Spike was silent.

* * *

Willow’s car careened down the off-ramp with an ease that Xander had never before experienced in L.A. traffic. A knowing grin spread across his face, and he laughed wickedly.

“Bad Willow,” he muttered as he shot past sluggish lanes of cars into the heart of the city. “Putting witchy mojo magic on your car. Oh, bad girl. I could just kiss you, you lifesaver.”

He spun the wheel violently, jerking the car across lanes of traffic and down the street Cordy had instructed him to take. Hyperion, Hyperion, who’s got the Hyperion?

“Aha!” he cried. The huge, imposing edifice loomed ahead. He executed another questionably legal maneuver to fling the car’s bulk into the adjacent parking lot. With an inner cheer of triumph, he staggered from the car and limped to the hotel doors as fast as his twisted ankle could carry him.

The double doors banged shut behind him, and Wesley, manning the telephone by himself, gapped unattractively for a moment before recovering.

“Er…Xander!” Wesley stood to greet him. “We, er, didn’t expect to be seeing you here.”

“Where else would I be when the Bleached Menace is doing something stupid?” Xander said, peering around the Englishman to see if he could catch a glimpse of Spike.

“Forgive me for being blunt, but a morgue is where I was expecting you to be, from what I heard.” Wesley frowned. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Super. Fabulous. Fanfuckingtastic. Where’s Spike?”

Wesley hesitated. “Xander…”

“I know what he’s here for,” he snapped. “He’s making a mistake. Where is he?”

Wesley sighed and nodded. “They’re in the basement down the hall,” he said. “It’s the door next to the supply closet. Xander,” he called out after the swiftly retreating figure, “It’s already over.”

No. No! The hall swayed in front of Xander’s eyes. He groaned in disappointment. Still, he limped on, fast as ever. Have to let him know I’m not dead. It’s not his fault.

A sixth sense urged him not to slam the basement door open in the same manner that he did the door to the lobby. As he cracked it open slowly, as familiar voice rose up the steps to greet him.

* * *

Spike’s voice, bitter and heartsick, finally broke the silence of Angel’s patient standoff.

“You want to know why I bloody care? Why I give a toss about what I did? Fine.” He sighed. “Would you let me down? I’ll talk.”

Angel snorted cynically and shook his head. A faint click of the doorknob turning in the basement door caught his attention, but he didn’t take his eyes off Spike. “No, Will, I can hear you fine from where you are. Go on, then, tell your Sire.”

Spike glared. “Git.” He sighed, relenting. “It’s—Xan and me, we hated each other. Think for a while, that’s all I could count on. His mates might use me, but Harris? No, he’d just grit his teeth and glare and tell it like it is. Me ‘n him, we know—knew—what it’s like being used. Could count on them fucking with my head, and him being honest. Even after I—I—”

“You’ve been forgiven for it, Will,” Angel interrupted.

“But not by me!” Spike yelled. He jerked down on the cuffs angrily. “Never by me! How many things don’t you forgive yourself for, O Brooding One? What does that soul make you feel?”

Words died on Angel’s lips at Spike’s glare.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. But me—me, I don’t have a sodding soul, and I still feel that same fucking guilt you do. What right do I have, forgiving myself for r-raping him when he’s dead and I’ll be around forever? I could let the Slayer kill me, but Xan was one of the good guys—I can’t apologize to him from Hell.” He shuddered. “I’ll never—never—forgive myself.”

“Will,” Angel said. “I would think that if the Harris lad was one of the ‘good guys,’ as you say, then he’s forgiven you already.” He nodded at his Childe and crossed his arms stubbornly. “You were telling me how the lad hating you made you feel secure,” he prompted. “There must be more to it, surely.”

“Like a terrier with a rat, you are,” Spike muttered.

Angel grinned briefly. “Speak, then, and I’ll not dog you any longer.”

“Hmph. Right. There’s always more, isn’t there?” Spike mused. “But yeah, it wasn’t just him hating me. Sometimes—sometimes it was just the two of us, both on the outside looking in. I don’t like his mates, so it never mattered to me, ‘cept when I had to go beg blood off the Watcher. That was humiliating. But Xan—he minded. They were his friends—shouldn’t’ve treated him like he was nothing. So when we were back in his basement, I stopped trying to remind him, after a while. Him ‘n me, we were too alike for me to enjoy it anymore.”

He twisted his mouth up in a parody of a smile. “Tried patching things up with him, you know. Talked to him whenever I could, took his side whenever he stood up to the rest of those sodding Scoobies—and that’s a fucking ridiculous name, y’ know? It really is,” he added. “Even brought over extra food and weapons when he wasn’t around to see. Nothing worked.”

“Did you ever apologize?” Angel asked. “Did you say the words to Harris, then? Or is that not something Spike, the Slayer of Slayers, does?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Spike protested. He hung his head. “I—I couldn’t get the words out. I tried, but—every time, I’d look at him and think, ‘here’s this kid with no special ability at all who just gives and gives and gives, and if I asked him, he’d give me forgiveness, too.’ I couldn’t ask for it. I figured I’d have time to come see you and ask for your justice before telling him I was sorry. I didn’t think it’d end like this.”

Something shifted very, very quietly on the top step of the basement staircase. Angel’s nostrils flared. Beneath the blood and adrenaline and iron, a very familiar scent of clean cotton and sugar drifted down the stairs. That’s not possible. He sniffed again surreptitiously. No. Oh Hell. He’s really here…he’s alive. He shook his head and looked up, hoping that Spike hadn’t noticed the eavesdropper, but his Childe was lost in his thoughts.

“Why, then?” Angel demanded again. “All I’m hearing from you are half-truths. Tell me honestly, what is it that makes you repent so sincerely? It’s not his honesty, it’s not how similar you two are, it’s not that you’re both alone. I know you, Will, and I know you won’t forgive yourself until you own up. Why?”

“Because I loved him!” Spike burst out. He clamped his mouth shut, mortified.

Angel rocked back on his heels. “I had thought as much,” he said quietly. “Tell me.”

“I loved him,” Spike repeated miserably. “Always will. Couldn’t help myself, falling in love—spent so much time watchin’ him. And it was his honesty, and how much he was like me, and how alone we were. But it was everything else, too. I loved the way he rolled with the punches and always came back for more. How he always knew how to make something hopeless look like something doable. Because he was so good—better than all of us. He was their glue. But he was my soul. All I had was Xander. He was everything to me.”

They both lifted their heads at a clumping noise. Angel watched the dark stairs, wary, as Xander—tall, strong, furious Xander—limped down the stairs. His face was schooled into a blank mask. The fingers of his right hand curled and uncurled reflexively. Angel knew he was itching to hold a stake in that hand.

* * *

Xander limped down the stairs slowly. He figured if he moved any faster, he’d probably go for Angel’s throat. Stupid Angel. If you weren’t Spike’s Sire, I’d so stake you. He looked at Spike. I should’ve figured it out on my own. It’s so obvious, looking back.

Spike’s eyes lit up briefly before panic set in. “No,” he gasped. “Can’t be. You’re dead. I saw you. I—oh God. No. Nonono. What are you?” He twisted frantically from the hook in the ceiling, trying to break the cuffs.

“It’s really me, Fangless,” Xander said. He smiled slightly. “We’ll talk in a sec, okay?”

He stopped in front of Angel and clenched his right hand in a fist.

“You couldn’t be bothered to call and confirm that I was dead before starting in on Spike?” he asked incredulously.

Angel shook his head uneasily. “Had you seen him earlier, lad, or heard his confession, you’d know it was what needed doing.”

Xander pulled his fist back, and Angel raised his chin, welcoming the blow. Slowly, Xander lowered his hand.

“Guess it’s not like you really had a choice, with him calling on you for that Hammurabi law of yours,” he said. He shrugged and eyed the vampire unhappily. “You did what you had to do, Deadboy, but your fun’s over now. Let my roommate down, okay?”

Angel growled slightly. “It wasn’t fun. Don’t ever think this was fun.” He stalked over to the hanging vampire and lifted him slightly, relieved when the chain slid from the hook easily. He tried to steer Spike over to the seat across the room, but the vampire balked.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture, Sire, but I’d rather stand.” He gripped Angel’s forearm tightly and balanced himself on his left foot.

“No fucking way.” Xander paled. “For—everything?” He caught sight of the bloodied railroad spike on the floor and blanched. “Christ.”

“I needed it,” Spike said gruffly. He looked everywhere but at Xander. “Was goin’ mad, not havin’ any justice for my Xan. I had to do it.” He bared his bloody teeth, the sight still intimidating in his human guise. “Why the hell should I explain it to you? You aren’t Xan. You’re just some demon with his face. If you came to kill me, hurry up and do it proper. Waiting around is getting bloody boring.”

Xander rolled his eyes. “If Deadboy knows it’s me, then don’t you think maybe it just might be?” he asked.

Spike shook his head stubbornly.

“Fine,” Xander snapped. He limped across the space between them. Angel pried Spike’s fingers from his arm and pushed him gently into the man’s hold.

Spike flinched, stiffening, and was about to take a step back, even on a broken ankle, when he took an instinctive, panicked breath of air, and froze. Xander smiled. That’s it, Spike. Figure it out.

“No,” Spike breathed. He pressed his face into the crook of Xander’s neck and inhaled deeply. “You—I saw you dead,” he accused.

“You saw me knocked out,” Xander countered. He squeezed his arms around the vampire’s waist comfortingly. “We need to talk about that, by the way. The floor is seriously not the greatest place to leave stakes. I could, you know, trip and fall, and hit my head.”

Spike groaned. “You’re taking the mickey.”

“Nope,” Xander said cheerfully. He steered Spike to one side and pulled one of his arms across his shoulders. “Come on. Let’s find out how many gimps it takes to climb a staircase.”

The unlikely pair made their way slowly across the room. Spike spoke up hesitantly.

“Xan—Harris—”

“Whatever floats your boat,” Xander said. He smiled down reassuringly at the wincing, bleeding vampire.

“Xan,” Spike tried again. “I—I never apologized. And it’s too bloody big to apologize for, and I don’t think I deserve to, but I’m—I’m sorry, and I just—”

“I forgive you.” He raised an eyebrow at Spike’s incredulous look. “I, ah, heard you talking to Deadboy. I pretty much forgave you right then.”

If Spike could have blushed, he would have. “How much did you hear?” he said nervously.

Xander chuckled and leered at him playfully. “Like I said. We have a lot to talk about when we get back to my place.”

Spike looked away.

“For one thing, don’t diss the Scooby Gang,” Xander said. He grinned. “It’s a great name.”

“It’s a bloody terrible name and you know it, pet,” Spike retorted. He smiled back at Xander for the first time, and warmth filled the man’s heart.

Oh yeah. We can make this work.

They flirted and argued their way up the stairs, Spike leaning on Xander heavily for support. When they reached the landing, Xander turned and looked back. In the dim light, he could scarcely make out Angel. The cursed vampire was standing in the middle of the floor, shoulders bent with a weight no one should carry. Their eyes locked.

Xander felt his lips twist into a bitter smile. He nodded slightly at Angel and turned away, leading Spike into the brightly lit hallway, and a new night.

Angel was left standing alone in the dark.

* * *

Angel had no idea how long he stood there in the all-encompassing gloom, surrounded by the scent of blood and tears and terror.

And guilt.

So much guilt.

He stirred, finally, and allowed his soul to chip away at the ice around his heart.

Xander is still alive.

A crack.

Xander forgave Spike.

The crack grew.

Xander and Spike…forgave me?

He felt it, like a pop, the inner guilty heat of his soul squeezing out of the corner it had been forced into and flooding through his body.

His demon growled, enraged. His soul raced to shove the demon down into the same icy crevasse in his heart. And he was back again, always out of balance, always searching, never finding.

He turned to walk up the stairs once more, moving quickly. The scents nauseated him. He had done that—had tortured his Childe. “Monster,” he murmured. He fled the basement.

Cordelia was waiting for him in the kitchen with a mug of blood. “They took Willow’s car back,” she informed him. “They want you to drop off Spike’s DeSoto when you get a chance.” She sniffed. “Apparently, I’m not trusted with his car.”

Angel sat and looked at her askance from over the rim of the mug. “You’re kidding,” he said flatly.

“No, no joke,” she said. “Can you believe it? I think I’m an excellent driver.”

He sighed and shoved the mug away. “Not that. It’s…. They really want me to bring the car?”

“Angel,” she sighed. “Look. Xander said I should tell you a couple pointless insults,” she grinned, “but also that he’s not a hypocrite, so he’s going to give you a second chance. Okay?”

“Big of him,” he muttered. He meant it, though.

She looked at him sympathetically. “What happened down there? I haven’t seen you like this for a while.”

“I tortured my Childe,” Angel said. He stared at the tabletop. “He asked for vampire justice, and I gave it to him.”

Cordelia set her hand lightly on Angel’s back. He tensed, but she didn’t move it, and he slowly relaxed. “Did it help him?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

She ran her hand up to his shoulder and squeezed gently. He laid his broad hand on top of hers, drawing comfort from her warmth.

“Why did you have to do it?” she asked softly. “Why was it even necessary? It’s hurting you, I can see that clear as anything.”

He looked up into her intense face and smiled at her protectiveness. “Spike and I might not get along, but he’s my Childe, and I’m his Sire. I’ll always be there for him when he has something he truly needs.”

“What did he need?”

Angel’s smile tightened, and he dropped his gaze. “He told you. What do you think?”

Cordelia frowned in remembrance. She looked down at Angel and what she saw in his eyes made her feel like crying. Slowly, she answered him.

“He said, ‘I need Angelus.’”

Hammurabi Part 1: response to werewindle's 3 little words challenge

Sun, 01 Jul 2007 17:19:30 GMT

Hammurabi

By JeansVenus

"If someone makes you lose an eye, then take an eye in return and only an eye, not the whole face." —Hammurabi’s Code

“An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth…viscera for viscera, a thigh bone for a thigh bone…achilles tendon…canine teeth…intimate parts…” –The Vampire’s Code

“I need Angelus.”

Angel stopped in mid-stride as Spike’s voice, tearful and raspy with desperation, floated down the hall. Not half-cynically, he wondered, What the Hell has my Childe been doing? He stopped to listen.

The next speaker was Wesley.

“Spike, do you really think you’re welcome here?”

Cordelia followed swiftly on his heels, closing ranks.

“Besides, can’t you tell the difference between Angel and Angelus, Clorox? Honestly. All that bleach is getting to that undead thing you call a brain.”

Angel started walking toward the lobby again. His long stride sped to a jog at the sound of Spike’s pleading rejoinder.

“I…please. I just need to see my Sire…I…” He stopped as Angel burst into the Hyperion’s lobby.

“Spike,” Angel started, then broke off in shock as he took in the sight of his Childe. Gone was the cocky posture, the smug grin. He stood in the center of the large room, flanked by Wesley and Cordelia, hunched over in his large leather duster. His eyes were dark red from weeping. The entire effect, Angel was disturbed to note, was terribly diminishing.

“What the Hell’s happened to you, Will, Childe?” he whispered, stunned.

“Angel. Sire.” Spike sighed in relief, sagging slightly where he stood. “Sire. I—oh, fucking Hell.” He rubbed a hand across tired eyes. “I don’t know how to say this, exactly—”

“I heard,” Angel interrupted. He crossed the distance between them to place a bracing arm around his Childe’s slumped, bony shoulders. “Let’s go talk in the kitchen about this.”

Spike stiffened, and he shook his head furiously. “No! I can’t! I need you—him—whichever Angelus is—now. Can’t wait. Can’t eat. I—” He clenched his jaw tightly. His upper lip trembled.

Oh, God. Angel looked down at the pathetic shadow huddled into the protective embrace of his arm, and unease settled heavily in his stomach. No, no, no. No no no nonono fucking Hell Will you can’t ask me for this.

“Please, Sire,” Spike whispered hoarsely. A single tear dripped from the corner of an enflamed eye. “It—it’s bad.”

* * *

In Sunnydale, a figure was sprawled across the floor of a bedroom, slowly leaking blood from its left arm. Its bare right foot lay twisted at an odd angle. A livid bruise, covered by a thick head of hair, extended just past the hairline.

To any casual observer, Xander Harris was dead.

Something in the subterranean apartment stirred.

…

A bug?

A groan broke the silence of the fetid basement air.

* * *

“Basement, then?” Angel asked, resigned. He waved a dismissive hand at Wesley and Cordelia as he steered a guilt-ridden Spike along with him. “You’ll tell me everything, and I mean everything, if you want what I think you do.”

Spike caught his trembling upper lip between his teeth and gnawed it nervously. “I do want it.” He looked up at his Sire with bloodshot eyes, seeking reassurance. “I—it’s the only way to set things right, innit? Eye for an eye and all that?”

The unease that had taken up residence in the pit of Angel’s stomach congealed and froze over, sending icy fingers up into his silent heart. I knew it. Against his better judgment, he let long-forgotten memories bubble up to the surface to guide him.

“Well now, we’ll see after you talk t’ me, Will,” he said softly. He was unnerved to hear how easily he fell back into Angelus’ lilting Irish cadences. Had his demon truly been that close to the surface?

The tension flowed out of Spike’s limbs at the light accent, and he scrutinized his Sire’s face for signs of either soul or demon.

“Sire? Who are you right now?” he asked hesitantly.

Angel barked a humorless laugh and answered with brutal honesty.

“Right now, Childe, I have no fucking idea, myself. You want Angelus for this, then, for now, we’ll say I’m Angelus.”

“Yes.” Spike smiled tremulously. “Sire. Angelus. Thank you.”

“Don’t be thanking me just yet, Will,” Angel advised. He stopped in front of a door next to a supply closet and pulled it open to reveal a set of narrow, poorly lit steps fading off into the dark. “Make your choice, lad. You may be leaving now, if you wish.”

Spike worried his lip some more before answering. He shook his head slowly, set on his course. “It wouldn’t be right to run now. I—I owe it to him.”

Angel shrugged, unhappy. The last truly Angel-like thought that he permitted himself to have, as he led the way into the large hotel basement, was, May Will forgive me when this is over, for I never shall.

* * *

Time in the basement held its damp breath at the sound of Xander’s pained groan. Dust motes froze in place in the air, full of nervous tension, peering at him anxiously for further signs of life. When it seemed it had been a fluke, and the room was about to heave a silent sigh of disappointment, he groaned again, and wrinkled his forehead in a pained grimace.

With a great effort, he hauled his right hand up to his face and covered his eyes. Then, screwing up his face, he uttered a single syllable.

“Owww…”

* * *

Spike stared down at his hands as he began to speak. Angel leaned against an unused table, ignoring the dust, and watched the emotions play across his Childe’s wan face.

“When I got away from the Initiative—”

Angel made a disgusted noise deep in the back of his throat.

“Right. Well, I went to the Slayer and her mates, for help. You know that. But, Sire, you don’t know how they treated me—how long they kept me chained up in that bloody bathtub. And they knew I couldn’t hurt them,” he cried. “They were getting their jollies off making me suffer.” His hands clenched unconsciously into fists atop his knees.

“So I got angry,” he continued, face dark from the memory. “And I decided to get whatever revenge I could. Then they sent me home with Xander bloody Harris. And that’s where I made my mistake. I got my revenge every day, and now—” his upper lip began trembling violently, and tears dripped down his cheeks. “I found him, Sire. He killed himself.”

Angel swayed back, shocked, against the dusty table. Xander Harris, dead? Impossible. He let out a slow, uneven breath, a holdover from another lifetime, and focused on his task.

“He’ll be missed, certainly,” he said mildly. “But answer me these questions, Childe. Why do you mourn the lad? You hated him, last I heard. And this revenge of yours, what did you do?”

“He tied me to that manky old chair of his when we got there.” Spike stared into the distance as he got lost in the past. “Thought it could keep me held, the stupid wanker. When he fell asleep, I broke the ropes.”

“Go on,” Angel prompted.

A slight smirk passed across Spike’s face, so quickly Angel almost thought he’d imagined it.

“I woke him up by pinning him to his bed. Didn’t hurt him, so it didn’t hurt me, see? Scared him, though. He couldn’t move an inch.” He raised a hand and scrubbed at his hair. Little flakes of gel flew up into the air. “I leaned over his ear and whispered nasty things, cruel, dirty things I’d do to him if he told the Slayer and his friends.”

In his mind’s eye, Angel saw a young, cocksure Childe pinned flat to the floor by his large, angry Sire, filthy threats crooned into his charge’s ear in a soft Irish accent.

“And doesn’t that sound familiar,” he murmured.

Spike met his eyes and grinned briefly before looking down at his hands again. “Learned from the best, didn’t I?”

Angel crossed his arms. “So you played at being your Sire and scared the lad. You didn’t hurt him, did you? If he’s dead, it’s regrettable, for sure, but not your fault. Why do you think you deserve the particular kind of justice I’d be meting out?”

“God.” Spike rocked forward slightly, covering his face with both hands. Angel waited, and after a minute his Childe calmed enough to speak. “I told you once, Angelus, that you were my Sire. Not Dru. That I worshipped you.” His voice was barely a whisper in the stillness of the basement. “I meant it more than you could possibly know.”

* * *

Xander blinked into the palm of his hand and tried not to whimper. What happened? He lifted his hand away cautiously and chanced a peek at the floor around him.

Stakes. Fucking Spike fucking leaving stakes for me to trip over. He groaned again, a sound of self-reproach rather than pain. That’s it. No more. I was dealing with the other thing just fine, but this? He could have killed me. I’m calling Giles and making Fangless move out as soon as he shows up again. He smirked weakly. Would serve him right if I kicked it, though.

A throbbing in his left arm made him grunt in pain and drag the offending limb into his line of vision for inspection. Well, shit. There goes the holy water. A long, shallow gash cut a jagged path across his inner forearm. The splintered remains of the glass bottle lay in a glinting mess on the floor.

He took a deep breath, blinking slowly. I don’t think I have a concussion. He lay still for another moment, then struggled unsteadily to his feet, limping to the bathroom and the medicine cabinet within. Guess I should clean myself up.

* * *

Spike stood slowly, not meeting Angel’s probing gaze. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands—first putting them in his duster pockets, then crossing his arms, repeating the movements every so often.

“Easy, Will,” Angel finally said. “Tell your Sire what it is you’ve done.”

Spike stilled his movements. “A few nights after that, I went out to kill some fledges, just to prove I still could.” He shook his head ruefully. “I—shite, the cemetery was empty by the time I was done. I’d been feeling so fucking impotent. I had to go kill something, you know? I—I’m the Big Bad,” he said, almost despondently. “I was going out of my head.”

“And what did you do, Will, after you’d killed?” Angel asked quietly. The icy fingers tightened their grip on his motionless heart.

Spike’s hands flew up from his sides to grip fistfuls of his light hair. For just a moment, Angel saw the tormented human he’d been over a century ago, and his throat tightened in sympathy.

“I—” he started, and faltered, anguished. He collapsed back into his chair. “I went back to his basement and I—I forced myself on him.”

The soul inside Angel’s body screamed for control, repulsed by the words of the younger vampire shaking in the seat before him. He shoved his protesting humanity into a dark corner and listened to his demon’s instincts. He was determined to see this play out to the bitter end, for justice and for Spike’s peace of mind.

He pushed away from the table, staring down at his Childe. “How did you do it without hurting him? It sounds to me as if you had this planned, William.”

Spike flinched. “I’d thought about it—having him, not—not r-rape,” he stuttered. “I’d left whiskey in the room that night—he was drunk when I got back. And…and I used something slick….”

Angel snorted. “Well, no one can ever say you don’t look after yourself first,” he said. He strove to stay impassive.

“He tried to fight back,” Spike said, tears creeping down his cheeks again. “I laughed—I laughed.”

Icy fingers dug their tips into the still lump of muscle in Angel’s chest. Yes. He remembered a similar night, long, long ago. You certainly did learn from the best, didn’t you?

“He never stopped fighting. I—I think he cried. I fell asleep on top of him.” Spike’s voice caught, and his upper lip found its way back between his teeth.

“Finish your confession, Childe,” Angel ordered in his soft voice.

Spike nodded and swiped at his cheeks roughly with the back of his hand. “When I woke up, he was in the shower, just…just sitting there. He saw me watching him and tried to pretend he’d lost the lid to the shampoo bottle.” He sank further into the seat, trying to disappear. “We—we decided to pretend it didn’t happen. But I was there every day. How do you ignore something that fucking big? I’d—I’d give him these…looks,” he said, leering briefly at nothing in particular before grimacing in self-disgust. “When nobody was watching, right? He never said a word, but—he started acting like he was—dead, almost, after a while. His stupid friends never noticed. Never notice anything, that lot. Probably thought he was sulking ‘cos I’ve been living there longer than they planned on.” He sneered.

“And then you went to the lad’s basement and found him dead,” Angel said. He stood and regarded the miserable specimen his Childe made.

“Yes,” Spike whispered. “Yes, Sire. He killed himself, and it’s my fault.”

“Childe,” Angel said, “I grant you your request for my justice.”

* * *

The sudden flare of light in the bathroom had Xander flinching into the darkest corner instinctively. He blinked furiously against the spots in his vision. Spike, I’m going to kill you. Them I’m going to kick you out, and kill you again. He approached the mirror cautiously, afraid of what he might find.

And I get all of your onion rings for a month, you slob, he thought grumpily at the sight of the bruise at his hairline. However, he was relieved to see that things weren’t nearly as bad as he’d thought. His pupils were equally small and unhappy about the bright overhead light being inflicted upon them, and the gash on his arm looked like it had stopped bleeding.

He heaved a long-suffering sigh and flipped the mirror to the side, examining the sparsely populated shelves for butterfly bandages and the Ace wrap. If you can change your spots, Spike, you have a lot of sucking up to do when you show up again.

Supplies in hand, he limped over to the toilet to have a seat and tend to his injured body.

* * *

Spike closed his bloodshot eyes and nodded his silent gratitude.

“Tell me, William,” Angel asked, “How did the body look?”

Spike shuddered at the words.

“You asked for this, Childe. What were the injuries?”

“He—it—” Spike gulped. “The body was sort of…flung out, like, on the floor.” He gestured with a hand vaguely to the room at large. “One of his wrists had been bleeding—his left, I think. And an ankle was twisted oddly.” He looked up absently, trying to recall the scene. “I don’t remember which. And his head—there was a big bruise.” He thought for a bit longer and shook his head. “That’s—that’s it—that’s what happened.”

“Do you think it might be safe to assume he slit his wrist, wandered out into the bedroom, and collapsed from blood loss?” Angel asked. The fingers of ice dug in a little deeper at his callous words, but he pressed on. I agreed to this, damn it. Who knows whom he’d go to if his own Sire refused him?

The tears started again, great fat salty marbles welling up in Spike’s eyes and spilling over in shiny trails down his face.

“Yes,” he said hoarsely.

“And you…had your way with the lad, truth?”

“Truth.” The reply was nearly inaudible.

“William. Childe. You have done a great wrong to someone dear to our friends and family.” He cupped his Childe’s chin in his palm firmly and tilted his face up. Spike met his gaze with watery, steadfast eyes. “You asked for atonement under our old laws, and I shall give it to you.”

Spike nodded slightly, the downward motion impeded by his Sire’s large hand.

“Sit and think on what you’ve done,” Angel said. He freed Spike’s chin and walked tiredly toward the stairs. “I’ll soon be back.”

Silence was his only answer as he made his way up the steps, feeling more keenly than ever the frozen grip the situation had on his soul.

Wesley and Cordelia hurried up to him as soon as he stepped into the corridor. He held up both hands in front of his chest to ward them off.

“Now is not the time for your questions,” he said. A growl rose in his throat; he forced it back, refusing to give in to his demon more than he had to. “I’m holding on to my sanity by a fucking thread, and don’t tell me that’s debatable. I know that for a fact.”

They came to a sudden, stumbling stop, staring at him wide-eyed.

“Who—” Wesley started.

“I don’t know ‘who,’ Wesley!” he snapped. “Leave it, will you? Ask me when I’m done condemning myself to a deeper level of Hell.”

The two humans exchanged wary glances, then seemed to come to a decision.

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Cordelia offered.

Angel sighed gustily and leaned against the basement door. “Now, I can’t say much, mind, but yes. You could both be of help. Thank you.” He nodded at Cordelia. “Will you call someone in Sunnydale and find out what happened to Harris that could get my Childe in such a panic?”

“Spike? Upset about Xander?” Cordelia looked dubious, but she shrugged and walked off to find a telephone. Angel slumped against the door. One down, one to go. Can’t give Wesley busy work, though.

“What’s happened, Angel?” Wesley asked. The Englishman looked him over with concern in his eyes.

“Leave it, Wesley,” Angel repeated. “It’s nothing you’ll want to know about.” He thought again, and added, “Will has invoked the old laws, do you understand that? What I’ll be doing to him? And if I should turn him aside, who should he go to?” He shrugged helplessly. “Don’t either of you come near this door when I go back down. There’s no disturbing such a thing.”

Wesley was silent for a long moment. “Is Xander Harris dead?”

“Would that he weren’t.”

“What do you need me to get?” Wesley asked simply.

“You know where things may be found,” Angel said wearily. “I need you to fetch me a thick leather strap, a clean one, mind you, strong handcuffs, and a good sharp knife.” He hesitated before adding, “And—and one of the railroad spikes from my room. Please.”

Wesley merely nodded. “You’re a good man, Angel, even if you don’t believe it.”

Angel waited until the hallway was empty before daring to reply.

“Thank you, Wesley.”

* * *

Xander limped out into his bedroom, still grumbling. Spike owes me chauffeured rides everywhere for a month, at least. His stomach growled, and he bent down to open the minifridge Spike had insisted they needed.

What stuff of his can I eat today? he thought. Perversely, he felt better than he had in months. The lack of Spike-ness is refreshing. I am so kicking him out. He ignored the little voice in the back of his head—the one that sounded like Angel or William Shatner, depending on the day—that hissed “liar liar liar” into his ears.

A package was prominently displayed, front and center, on the middle shelf of the fridge, bearing a little note that read ‘~~Xander~~ Harris.’ Hmmm. He pulled the package from the fridge and flipped open the note.

‘~~Xander~~ Harris:

They gave me a double order by accident. Be a good chap and eat the rest so they don’t go bad.

—Spike’

Xander peeked inside the bag and shook his head in confusion. There, crisp and heavily battered just the way Spike liked them, was exactly one order of freshly cooked onion rings.

The shrill noise of the telephone interrupted his confused train of thought. He reached for it absently.

“Yeah?”

“Xander!”

He winced away from the receiver as Cordelia’s loud, worried voice rattled through his aching head.

“Hush, you. I have a headache,” he said irritably. “What’s wrong? You don’t sound too great. Deadboy’s chronic brooding isn’t contagious, is it?”

“Angel told me to call and find out what happened to you,” she said.

Xander looked sideways at the telephone. Cordelia was letting a jab like that slide? Something must be up. “I’m fine,” he said. “I tripped and fell a little while ago, but I’m okay. Really. I’m like the Energizer Bunny. Or the Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man. Whichever works in this case.”

“Xander!” she interrupted. “Listen. I don’t care. I’m glad you’re fine, but seriously? Things aren’t fine here. Spike showed up looking like his best friend had died, which was weird enough, but now Angel’s going around talking like Angelus—still Angel, though. And I heard him say something to Wesley about old laws, whatever those are.”

“Oh crap,” Xander gasped. “He didn’t. That stupid, stupid bleached idiot.” He jumped to his feet, stumbled, and limped determinedly to the dresser. “Cordy, dear, dear friend. What’s the traffic like? I have to get to Spike. Like now. Before he does something stupid.”

* * *

The railroad spike came to a rest against the dusty table with a low clunk, gleaming dully next to the rest of Angel’s chosen instruments.

Spike’s eyes flicked toward it and away, back and forth, afraid to fully look at his namesake.

Angel stepped around the table. Steady. Can’t hesitate now. “Do you see something that bothers you, Will?” he asked, face blank and mild.

His Childe hesitated a brief moment before nodding and pointing to the railroad spike.

The older vampire affected surprise. “The spike? Ah, Will, you thought you could call on an old law and only pay for half your sin? No, Will. Spike violated young Xander Harris, and a spike shall violate you, in turn.”

He watched Spike’s face for any sign that he was being pushed too far, but his Childe just hunched his shoulders and nodded.

The frigid hand that was wrapped around his heart squeezed down painfully. Why does he have to look so damn young?

“See that hook?” he said, pointing to something glinting in the ceiling.

Spike twisted around in his seat to look.

“I found a punching bag hanging there when we moved in. I replaced it with a new hook sometime back, a good strong one. It ought to hold a grown man’s weight, now.” He picked up the handcuffs and beckoned to Spike. “Come here to me, Childe. It’s time.”

Spike stood, wide-eyed, wavering slightly on his long legs. He reached instinctively for the table to brace himself, but caught sight of the railroad spike again and snatched his hand back.

Angel took pity on him and wrapped a hand loosely around his upper arm, leading him across the dim room. “Tell me again,” he insisted. “Tell me you want this, or I’ll not lay a hand on you.”

His Childe found his voice. “I need this, Sire, please. I—I want it.”

Angel shook his head and snapped the cuffs onto Spike’s wrists. “There’s not much I’d not do for you if you truly needed it, Will,” he said gently. He smoothed tendrils of sweat-damp hair from Spike’s face, and, bestowing a paternal kiss to his forehead, lifted him by the armpits to hang the handcuff chain from the hook.

Spike looked down at him with an odd mix of fear and gratitude in his eyes. “I know, Sire,” he said, voice quiet. “I know. Thank you.”

Angel nodded and walked back to the table. “I have rules for you, Childe,” he called across the open space. “Firstly, you harmed a human. Therefore, you’ll take your punishment in your human face. I don’t want to see it slip, even when the pain overwhelms you.” He folded the leather strap and stuck it in the back pocket of his pants. “Secondly, you must let me know if you feel you need to scream, as the door isn’t soundproofed. The strap’s for you to bite on.” He tucked the knife and spike into his belt and walked back over slowly. “And thirdly…thirdly, I have a question for you that you’ll answer if you expect an end to this.”

“Yes,” Spike grunted. “Agreed.” He rolled his neck from side to side uncomfortably.

Angel knelt on the cold cement floor and began unlacing his Childe’s boots. They were big, he observed, and heavy, more for show than practicality. They had a bright yellow tag sewn into the back, but the boots were so kicked about and scruffy that the label was unreadable.

“Admirin’ my boots, are you?” a quiet voice above him asked.

“Trying not to ruin them, you daft Childe. Now shut up, will you?” He pulled off the first boot and gave Spike’s sock a hard tug to remove it. “I’m having enough of a time with this as it is.”

Spike, in his own inexplicable way, had perked up as soon as Angel had started. “Sorry, Sire. That’s right thoughtful of you, though—ahnghh!”

Angel grasped Spike’s bare, pale foot between his big hands and, after taking a moment to brace himself, wrenched it sharply to the side. A sickening crack echoed off the basement walls.

“A foot for a foot,” he said grimly. He stood and pulled the knife from his belt. “An arm, next. The left, you said?”

Spike clenched his jaw and nodded, not daring to make a sound.

Angel gripped Spike by the elbow and held him fast, tracing the knife’s tip along the underside of his forearm. “What d’ you think he did, Will? D’ you think he just cut across quickly and hoped for the end?”

Spike screwed his eyes shut as, once again, he was trapped and motionless, and his Sire whispered painful, cruel things into his ears.

The elder vampire was relentless. “Or perhaps he dug the tip in, here—” He pushed the tip of the knife through the thick layers of skin.

Spike caught his lower lip between his teeth and bit down hard. Angel suspected he’d have asked for the strap right then, if he weren’t trying not to scream.

“And dragged it down his arm, slowly—” He pulled the knife down Spike’s outstretched arm toward his elbow, feeling skin and fatty tissue snag and part against the blade.

His Childe shuddered as hot, borrowed blood bubbled up in the wake of the cut and trickled down his arm, pooling in the bony hollows of his elbow and bent shoulder, turning his shirt into a sodden mess.

“—Before going out to die,” Angel finished. He withdrew the knife and wiped it clean on Spike’s sock.

Harsh, panting sounds ripped themselves free from Spike’s throat. “Think he…did that,” he gasped. “Thank you.”

“An arm for an arm,” Angel said in reply. “You spoke of a blow to the head?”

“Near the top of his skull,” Spike said. He closed his eyes as Angel turned the knife around, handle-out in his fist. “Could barely see it. Came down his forehead a bit, though.”

“I think I have the measure of it.” Angel hefted the knife experimentally, and, before drawing his arm up and back, warned, “Relax your jaw.”

He cringed inwardly at the loud, hollow clunk that sounded as the handle connected with the top of his Childe’s head. Will, Will, the things I do to you. Behind closed eyelids, Spike’s eyes rolled up into their sockets.

He waited patiently for Spike to rouse. As soon as his eyes fluttered open, he laid the knife on the floor and addressed him gently.

“A head for a head.” He waited. “You know what it is that’s next, Childe.”

Spike grinned weakly, flashing teeth and lips bloody from suppressed screams. "Oh, sure. Fun part's over, innit, Sire?"

Putting Real People (or their quirks) In Stories...The Good, Bad, and Really Ugly

Wed, 27 Jun 2007 04:46:17 GMT

I think everyone's heard of the infamous account given by JK Rowling of her portrayal of a *gasp* real person as Gilderoy Lockhart in Chamber of Secrets. An amusing tale, to be sure, and years old. The guy didn't recognize his own hubris in print. A caricature of a character. Gotta admit, that's pretty clever, the way she did it.

But. *And I hear wails of people with friends as quirky as mine* BUT. It's just not the done thing, taking people you know and putting them on paper. Seriously. Friendships can be damaged at best, and lawsuits can be drawn up at worst. As much as we'd like to say we're complimenting our 'oh so quirky and lovable' friends, we're not. Well, not if we're writing a Lockhart, or a Lolita, or a desperate househusband. Is it really that charming?

Imagine all of your 'lovable quirks' exaggerated into epic proportions, tacked onto your profession/calling/place in life (lawyer/tarot reader/shiftless college student) and having that version of you sent out in books across the world.

Sucks, right?

So, that's the really ugly.

The bad is when you take your favorite flaws and foibles from different people you know, to make a patchwork quilt type of character. Only, instead of sewing all these different pieces together neatly, you never learned the basics. So we go to the punk staples, right? Duct tape and safety pins.

It's an excellent look, but y' know what? It just doesn't do much to hold a character's personality together. So why do we have a binge-drinking practicing Muslim college student who reads tarot cards in his spare time and came from Britain? Are we ever going to figure out WHY we tossed all these adorable and not so adorable details into the mix without doing anything to make them fit?

It rarely works to say "I like this, and this, and this, and those three pieces of my most spectacular friends, too, and I'll make them all into SuperWonderfulCrazyBizarroCharacter! It'll fit!"

The good is taking one thing. Really, just one. You take one behavioral quirk that you find fascinating/irritating/hellish/praiseworthy and you put it into your character's personality CAREFULLY. This is a needle-and-thread, superglue sort of job. If it doesn't look right, either pick a different quirk, or pick a different character. Don't force it. Readers can feel that forced attempt.

So if you know someone who works at a music store, is functionally tone deaf, and won't eat anything that was 'cute' when it was alive...start digging. There's bound to be a quirk in there you want to refine for a story...and you won't f*** up a good friendship, either.

Never say I'm afraid of Manic Panic...

Mon, 25 Jun 2007 15:28:52 GMT

Woo! I think I'll go do this. 'Cause, you know, it sounds like way too much fun.

Your Hair Should Be Orange

Expressive, deep, and one of a kind.
You pull off "weird" well - hardly anyone notices.

What's Your Funky Inner Hair Color?

...Oh, yeah.

Never, Already, Not Yet Chapter Two

Mon, 25 Jun 2007 00:26:43 GMT

The second chapter of Never, Already, Not Yet is finally up (I'm horrible. Goes to show what happens when you write in two fandoms).

The earlier chapters (prologue, chapter one) can be found here in my memories. As there's been quite a gap in posts, I recommend re-reading. Updates should be more regular, barring another family tragedy.

Title: Never, Already, Not Yet
Series: none
Author: JeansVenus
Email: jeansvenus12@yahoo.com
Archive/Distribution: *incredulous cough* Ah, if you want it...sure, ask me. Otherwise, bloodclaim, my journal, and my personal Yahoo! group
Summary: The Powers That Be screwed up badly with Sunnydale. Xander's sent back to the crux without memories of the future.
Warnings: Some profanity, slash in future chapters.
Rating: FRT this chapter, FRM overall
Disclaimer: If I owned the Buffyverse, I wouldn't be freaking out about paying my college tuition.

Sunlight. Xander squinted and shaded his eyes against the bright morning sun, so startling after the dim lobby and blacked-out apartment. Businesses were opening, sidewalks were being swept. Cars passed by, little one-person worlds on their way to their Saturday shopping.

Did yesterday even happen? It was hard to believe. Everything was so insanely normal. The money in his pocket and the building at his back told him otherwise. He ducked his head to surreptitiously sniff at his shirt. Ugh. I’d better get some deodorant to go with a new shirt. I smell like the inside of a gym locker.

“Go West, young man,” he muttered, and began walking down the street. That little coffee place Willow liked was somewhere on this block…Ahh, hello, precious. He pulled the door open and slipped into the dark café.

“Coffee,” he told the perky girl behind the counter. “Big. Cream and Sugar. Lots.” He eyed her with suspicion—people just shouldn’t be that happy in the morning.

“Xander!”

He turned and smiled. “Wills! Hey. Good to see you. What’s new and exciting in the land of Willow?” He forced himself to shut up when his coffee arrived. His best friend could always tell the difference between normal babble and nervous babble.

She took him by the elbow and steered him to a corner table. They settled into the chairs, and Xander braced himself for a Willow-style interrogation. She disregarded her cup of coffee and crossed her arms, leaning forward across the table intently.

“Where did you guys go last night?” Willow asked. “What are you doing in town this morning? Why did you leave? What happened?” She paused for breath. “Is Jesse… gone?”

“Whoa, whoa,” Xander interrupted. “In no particular order, I’m getting breakfast, I crashed at Angel’s place last night, and I left because I—I had to stake Jesse.” He looked down into his coffee cup, hoping it might have the answers he lacked. “Angel helped me out a lot last night, Wills. I couldn’t deal with things. He just let me sleep it off on his couch.”

Willow’s eyes widened. “I know he’s helped Buffy, but we don’t really know him, Xander. He could be dangerous. He has that whole dark, brooding, and Byronic thing going on. It’s kind of menacing. Don’t you think?”

Xander choked on a mouthful of coffee. Could be dangerous? He wiped his mouth off with the back of his hand before answering. “Ah…ha. Right. You need a twelve-step program for our English class. You’re seeing Heathcliff every time someone tall, dark, and unhappy shows up.”

Willow laughed a little, but quickly turned serious. “I mean it. I’m scared, Xander. This whole Hellmouth undead demon thingy… we’re just kids. We’re high school students. I want to help Buffy, but…I don’t want to die.” Like Jesse, her eyes said sadly.

Xander hung his head. “Are you mad?” he whispered. “I couldn’t stop it. The club was so crowded, and he was talking to me, and threatening to…do stuff, and he got pushed, and I had a stake, and he fell right on it.” He took a deep breath. “I think he could’ve dodged it, if he wanted to. But, y’ know, it was like he was waiting for me to stake him or something.”

“You’re kidding, right?” she said. She stared at him, waiting for the punch line, the joke, anything. He stared back, his face serious for once. “But—but that wasn’t Jesse,” she said indignantly. “That was a demon in our best friend’s body. You remember, evil bloodsucking fiend? I’m pretty sure they’re short on suicidal tendencies.”

“Hmm.” Xander gulped down his coffee and stood. “I’m going shopping for some new clothes, want to come?” he asked, blatantly changing the subject. Definitely not going to mention Angel’s little lack of living issue. I don’t want my new friend getting staked. “I’m staying with Angel for a while longer, and he tossed some money at me this morning and told me to go buy clothes.” He grinned. “I’m down with that. I’m feeling a serious non-Goodwill vibe right now.”

Willow stood as well, heaving a theatrical sigh for her best friend’s benefit. “Fine. But don’t think you’re getting out of a long talk, mister.”

He winked at her. “Hmm.”

“So, what do you think? Old Navy? The Gap? Express? …Xander?”

She hurried to catch up with him as he fled the coffee shop. “Sheesh!” he griped. “Whatever’s closest. And the least expensive. And the least, um…gay-ish.”

“Gay-ish?” She giggled.

He shrugged. “Larry already thinks he’s the height of cool to make fun of me for being a sci-fi nerd. I don’t need to give him or the Cordettes any more ammo.”

“I—fine. There’s an Old Navy a few blocks down from here,” she suggested. “I’m sure it’s more guy-ish than gay-ish, if that helps your insecurities.”

Xander hip-checked her playfully. “Way to help a guy. Because, seriously? It’s so not my fault I’m surrounded by pretty girls and tough guys. And tough, pretty girls. The Xan-man has to watch out for his masculinity. It’s a precious thing. Like, like the Heisenberg Compensator. No Star Trek ship is complete without one.”

“Oh, of course,” Willow said. “Indispensable. I feel lost without some masculinity already.”

“No, you feel lost without the Heisenberg Compensator,” he corrected. “I think you’ll manage just fine without any masculinity.”

They rounded the corner in the bright sunshine, nattering away happily. Xander pulled out all the stops to keep his friend happy and distracted—gesturing, smiling, and running his mouth off about whatever he could think of. For now, Wills, let’s not think about what happened last night, he decided as he pulled open the door to the Old Navy store Willow steered him toward.

“What do you want to get?” Willow asked, tugging him into the men’s department. She ran a hand down the sleeve of a bright yellow shirt.

“Um. Not that,” Xander said warily. He looked around. “Honestly? I don’t know what I’m doing. I woke up this morning and was shoved out the door with orders to buy, and I quote, ‘some groceries and decent clothes.’ He gave me a wad of money for it, too.”

“Very weird,” Willow said. She eyed him strangely, then shook her head and turned back to the shirts. “If I pick out some shirts and pants for you, how much do you want to spend?”

Xander dug into his pocket to see how much he was carrying. “If I split it—fifty? And please, please, nothing bright. I’m so sick of the Day-Glo shirt thing, it’s not even funny. The funny met an ugly end in a back alley years ago.”

Willow nodded decisively. “Gotcha. Go sit somewhere, okay? I’ll round up the unusual suspects and toss you in a dressing room with them.”

“Oh my God, you’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Xander said. He gasped in mock-horror and backed away to sit on a bench within supervising-range. “This is revenge for me shaving your Barbie’s head in first grade, isn’t it?”

“She had the nicest hair before you came along,” Willow said primly. She wandered over to the tee-shirt section and pulled two off the rack. “You and—well, you ruined my collection. You boy, you.”

“And didn’t Butch Barbie become your favorite one?” Xander asked. “After the funeral for the hair and the suitable period of mourning, that is, of course.” He craned his neck to watch her move around the area.

“She always kicked Ken’s butt,” Willow admitted. She glared at Xander. “Not that that’s any excuse for your hack job of a haircut.”

He dropped his face into his hands and moaned. “This is about revenge. I’m doomed. I’ll never make it out of here alive.”

He breathed a sigh of relief as he slipped inside the apartment at lunchtime, laden down with bags of food and ‘decent’ clothing. It had been emotionally exhausting to dodge Willow’s questions about Angel; it had been even worse not giving in to the temptation of arguing with her about Jesse.

“Angel?” he called out softly. “Hey, you here?” He peered into the dark hallway and tried to decide whether or not to turn on the light.

The flip of the switch and the bright overhead light took him by surprise. He yelped and stumbled back against the door. The enigma known as ‘call-me-Angel-I-don’t-bite’ stood glaring at him blearily in the middle of the hall. Xander had to stifle a smile. The vampire was dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, and his hair stood up in the back.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Angel asked. He yawned, and his jaw cracked loudly. A hint of fang flashed.

Xander straightened and attempted to walk by him. “Yeah, lunchtime. I got munchies, if you want some variety with your hemoglobin.” He grinned up at a tired Angel. “I kept the receipts, if you want them, since you told me to buy stuff. And, um, we’re going to have to call Mr. Giles from here, because I couldn’t find a phone out there.”

Angel stared down at him for a long moment before snorting with laughter. “Give me one of those,” he said.

Xander eagerly surrendered two of the heavier grocery bags.

“Kid—Xander—it might be lunchtime for you, but this is my version of three in the morning. It’s not that fun to be awake right now.”

“Come on, man,” Xander said. He bounced on the balls of his feet as he followed Angel into the kitchen. “Fun, schmun. How would you know if it’s fun or not if you’re asleep, and can’t enjoy it?” He set the bags down on the counter with a thunk, noisily emphasizing his point.

Angel looked at him with a bemused expression on his face. “Do you usually talk this much?”

“Okay, seriously? If you think I never shut up, you should have seen me with Willow today,” he said. “I was all evasive action. Sly like a fox, that was the motto of the day. She didn’t learn a single thing from me about you.”

Angel took the thermos of blood from the fridge as well as the bowl of oatmeal-y stuff. “I’m not surprised she was asking,” he said, pouring out a mug’s worth of blood. “What did she say?”

“Aren’t you coming to the meeting at the library tonight?” Xander asked. He watched, fascinated, as Angel sprinkled salt across the top of the oatmeal. “You could always just ask her. And what the heck is that?”

“Porridge,” Angel said. He shrugged. “I always ate it at breakfast when I was human. I’ve never been able to break myself of the habit.” He stuck the bowl in the microwave next to the mug and pressed a button.

“Ah, cool. I’m more of a Frosted Flakes kind of guy, but whatever works,” Xander said.

“To answer you, yes, I’ll be there,” Angel said. He kept his eyes on the microwave. “Those dreams you had bother me. I wouldn’t be surprised if you had more. You need to be in a safe, knowledgeable environment for as long as you’re having prophetic dreams.”

“Why?” Xander asked. He stared hard at his new friend. “I don’t get it. How do you even know they’re prophetic? Maybe I was just worked up from last night. I don’t—safe? I’m safe at home.”

“Physically, maybe,” Angel retorted. “Don’t insult me with an argument. Would they be able to pull you out of a sleeping vision? Defend you from intruders looking for a pet seer?”

Xander shook his head slowly.

Angel opened the microwave and pulled out his breakfast. “That’s why you’re staying here. The Watcher and I will talk your parents around. We’ll tell them something pretty—a scholarship program, a live-in academics coach, whatever we have to.”

“You’d do that for me?” Xander asked. “You barely know me.”

“You cared about your friend Jesse,” Angel pointed out, “and understand that ‘demon’ doesn’t always mean ‘evil.’ You barely know me, either, and you’ve done quite a lot for me already.”

“I haven’t done anything,” Xander protested.

“Yes you have,” Angel said. “You’re still here, aren’t you?”

Oh. And it made sense, in a horrible, sad way. I bet he’s never just ‘hung out’ with someone—well, in a non-killing way--since getting cursed. Heh. I’ll be his friend…I wonder if he knows what he’s getting into? “Unless you get really sick of me talking, Deadboy, there’s no getting rid of me,” he said laughingly. He zeroed in on the bags of groceries to find a lunch.

“Deadboy?” Angel said indignantly.

Xander hid his face in the bag of celery. “What? I didn’t say anything.”

“If you don’t want to sleep on the floor tonight, I’d better not hear that…that nickname again,” Angel warned.

“I dunno, Angel,” Xander said, munching on a stick of celery. He paused to savor the strange look on his new roommate’s face. “I’m thinking it’s a give and take situation here. You don’t call me kid, and I don’t call you Deadboy.”

Angel choked on his mouthful of blood. “It’s like living with Will again,” he muttered. “I’m doomed.”

Two vampires slipped quietly across the border into the Czech Republic. They’d left a gleeful, gory trail behind them, hopping from town to town across various former Soviet satellite nations.

A security guard looked up sleepily from his post at the Czech-German border. He rubbed his eyes—had he imagined it? Two people—two beautiful people—mm, one like chocolate, and one like milk.

His stomach rumbled. He blinked, and soon forgot about his late-night hallucination.

A faint metallic tang drifted toward his station from the Czech side of the border. He licked his lips. When his relief came, perhaps he’d go for a nice hearty bratwurst, and save his bar of chocolate for later.

Mm.

3 little words challenge for Summer Fest 07

Wed, 20 Jun 2007 01:48:11 GMT

I signed up on bloodclaim to do a fic for werewindle's community and the Summer Fest 07. I wrote out my mildly Spanderish fic on the plane home from Frankfurt to San Francisco.

Now. This is, seriously, the one-shot that ate my notebook. I'm still typing it up in between lessons and errands, and I'm thinking, 'okay, I'm going to have to pare this thing down a LOT.' I'm just glad that there was only a minimum word limit, because otherwise? I'd be so f***ed.

And what the hell, Spike? What're you doing to this story? You and Angel, God! I don't WRITE stuff this freaking depressing.

I'm going to go sit in a corner and contemplate life. After I finish typing this thing up in one fell swoop.

**

In a side note. What the hell is up with so many Xangel stories making Xander an unapologetically simpering bottom-boy? Seriously not cool. It's why I don't read them. If anyone knows of some where Xander isn't like that, and liked the story, figure you could send links my way? I'm not having great luck with that.

*sigh* And that's why I like Spander. Most of it's less, um. Skewed.

Little expository entry...thing...

Sun, 10 Jun 2007 09:39:18 GMT

Right. I figure I've hopelessly tangled up my personal and fic lives in this journal. This is going to be my last entry for the rest of the trip here in Turkey while I UNtangle them. I'm starting a new journal for my RL stuff, deleting some entries, etc. etc.

I need the order. Gah...

Doubtful that anyone would be interested in my RL journal, as it's all college and singing and stuff.

I do promise to keep my current journal from becoming skeletal. I won't just post fic updates. I'll have everything fic in this one.

Right. I'm off to do some LJ amputating.

Ta, ducklings!

JeansVenus

laughing into my hat right now

Sat, 09 Jun 2007 11:32:27 GMT

Gakked this from crimson_haze. Had to laugh at my definition. İf this doesn't describe me in a couple years, when İ'm trying to pay off my student loans, İ'll be surprised. Too funny

jeansvenus --
[noun]:

A beat poet working the streets

'How will you be defined in the dictionary?' at QuizGalaxy.com

Successful college student, my pert little toches!

The Great LJ Fuckup of '07

Wed, 06 Jun 2007 17:05:27 GMT

İ left for Turkey right as this was happening.

İ was out of touch with the LJ world long enough for everything to blow up--really blow up--and for all the details to come out properly. İts been hashed and rehashed and hash browned. As one person in LiveJournal said, only the most unconscious fanfic writers were unaware of the debacle. İn my case, it was lack of access to a computer and a food poisoning hangover that prevented my immediate knowledge.

As a lurker on Pornish Pixies, İ can't help but join in the cries of outrage. The Aussies say it best: "WTF, Mate?!" Throw in a few solid English "bloodies" and an emphatic U.S. "God damn it!" and İ think İ pretty much have my bases covered.

The apology that followed, even if it was self-effacing, seemed rather ominous. So certain communities are going to be monitored based on the interests listed? Maybe İ should go list Orson Welles and miniluv--but there's always that danger that the Newspeak for 1984's Ministry of Love would be taken the wrong way by the unread.

İ think the only good that can come of this--and this opens up an entirely new can of worms--is that LJ is very, very aware of the fanfiction community now, and will have to tread gently around us in case it pulls our tails again the next time it goes after the "perverts" of the online world.

My worry: will concerned moms and pops come after the creative, wacky people in our widespread fanfic comms next, for corrupting the pure, wonderful stories their kiddies read?

Should İ start passing out buttons on the street?

"İ toured MiniLuv: LJ 1984/07"

"Bıg Brother Lıves Here: LJ 1984/07"

İ think İ'll give ficwad.com one more chance today, and if it doesn't work, İ'll head in for dinner and a nice long read. Hope everyone's doing well wherever they are.

A ridonkulous HP one-shot

Sat, 19 May 2007 22:35:34 GMT

Muahaha! I'm back in the HP world! Yay me!

...I'm actually just trying to update all my crap before I head to Turkey next Saturday. I needed to write something to get me in the mood. This was it. It's patently ridiculous (ridonkulous, as my friend Alanna says), but it's what I have right now. So here. Go for it. Read. Enjoy.

When Ginny Gets Bored....

A peek at the post-war school days of our favorite Gryffindors and Slytherins as they make up their missed school year. Ginny's bored. Nine adult students are in a House of their own. Snape's their Head of House. Spring Fever ensures minor chaos. You know what they say about familiarity breeding contempt...

Uncle Mike

Sat, 21 Apr 2007 01:29:23 GMT

There won't be any fic updates for a couple days. I just found out that my Uncle Mike died in the gym a few minutes ago. I'm having trouble wrapping my mind around it. The man is--was--larger than life, and only in his early sixties. My heart is with my aunt and my cousins right now. I'll rejoin the fic community once this has sunk in, and I get my crying done.

Love,

JeansVenus

Dear Underage Reader: potential trouble on my Yahoo! group

Fri, 20 Apr 2007 00:14:18 GMT

I manage a Yahoo! group for my fanfiction and original writing, and try to check it/update it daily. Just now I did something I probably should have done a while ago. I went through the members list.

There were TWO sixteen year olds. TWO.

I haven't posted anything "adult" yet, but in coming weeks and months, I'll have very slashy stuff up there. So one of them's gone, the other's still there for now. I sent them both the following email. If any under 18 slash fans reads this, PLEASE! This is what mods and authors are thinking when they see someone underage reading their adult fics!

Hi, you! It's your friendly mod here. I've been going through the members list, and noticed a couple people with "16" as their posted age on their profiles, and you were one of them. Right now it's not a problem, but the content of the posted stories will get more adult as time goes by. If you're going to be at or above the age of consent in your country/state/whatever within the next few months, cool! If that's not the case, there are other places that the stories here are archived, and you should always feel free to email me. Because I "run" the group, I don't want any adults-only fiction being freely available to minors. It's a legal issue. I know a LOT of teenagers read some hardcore fanfic before they're eighteen (seventeen in some countries), but on groups and mailing lists, it can get the owners and the mods in trouble.

Thanks for your cooperation,

JeansVenus

My fic has a title now!

Thu, 19 Apr 2007 00:59:49 GMT

I'm done on lj for the day. I mean really. 4 entries (including this one) is kinda nuts. Guess I'm making up for a non-update weekend. But before I take myself off to indulge in the wild world of real life, I'm just dropping a note here that I came up with a title for my Spander redo-fic: Never, Already, Not Yet. It sounds weird, but it was the whole jamais vu vs. deja vu thing, and it stuck in my head. Feel free to weigh in.

Angsty Spander for sevendeadlyfun

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 21:14:28 GMT

sevendeadlyfun made a banner (see, so pretty!) and asked for angsty fic, so I wrote a short deathfic clocking in at 576 words. Hope you like, seven'!

In Memoriam

“Were you just going to leave? Not even say goodbye?”

Spike dropped his half-packed bag and turned. Aw, bugger. Dawn stood in the entrance of the apartment, arms crossed, frustration creasing her brow.

He sighed. “I have to, Bit. ‘S nothing left for me here.”

She crossed the room and began folding his shirts with jerky movements. “What about us? You have us, don’t you?”

‘What about me?’ hung in the air, heavy, unsaid, pregnant.

Spike tugged the shirt from her hands gently and tipped her face up. Her eyes were still red from the funeral.

“Don’t you?” she repeated miserably.

“Shh, luv,” he soothed, stroking her hot cheek with his thumb. “Yeah, I got you. But everything in this shite town reminds me of Xan.”

“They’re good memories,” she said stubbornly.

He let go, wheeled away violently. His hands covered his face shakily. “Memories of what I don’t have anymore.”

“Spike,” Dawn said softly.

He tried to laugh. It came out a sob. “Don’t you get it, Bit? This whole sodding town is haunting me. Our apartment—I smell him everywhere. I can’t go anywhere. I keep thinking he’s just around the corner. Two days,” he said harshly, waving his hand. “Two days and I’m already going mad. Any longer and I’ll be worse than Dru.”

Dawn laid her hand tentatively on his skinny back. He flinched, leaned into it. She moved closer and rubbed his shoulders gently.

“What do you want me to tell the others?” she asked.

His head dropped. “Tell them…tell them that the Big Bad’s moving on. And not to ask Peaches to look for me, ‘cos I’m going to go it alone for a while. Right?”

“Okay,” she agreed. Quiet. Sad.

He took an unsteady breath and faced her again, kissed her forehead. “You’re the best, Niblet.”

Dawn gave him a tiny smile and reached for his shirts again. “Don’t do anything too stupid,” she said.

“’M an impulsive vampire, Bit,” he protested, grateful for the humor. “I won’t know if it’s stupid until it’s too late.”

She shook her head and handed him his bag. “Will you come back to visit me sometime?” she asked sadly.

He took the bag in one hand and hugged her around the shoulders with his free arm. “Don’t know.” ‘Don’t count on it.’ “We’ll see, yeah?” He handed her the key to the apartment. “This place has too much history to go to some poor fuck looking for a nice apartment. ‘S yours now. Take care of it, right?”

She squeezed the little key tight in her hand. “I will. I promise.”

He smiled at her and walked out the door. “I know you will.”

He parked the DeSoto at a rest stop a couple hundred miles down the highway. The sky was turning the ripe purple-blue of predawn. He climbed onto the roof of the car and pulled the bent, black and white photo of the two of them from his pocket.

Xan. Love you. Stupid, brave, loyal human. Wish I could’ve saved you.

He shivered and remembered his Xan’s words from one night, months ago. ‘I know we don’t have forever. I promise, when I…go…I’ll wait for you on the other side.’

The very edge of the horizon glowed with a faint yellow light.

“’S not stupid, Bit,” he murmured. “It’s the best thing I could do.”

As the sun rose steadily, Spike faced the light and smiled.

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 19:00:02 GMT

I took the "How Evil Are You" quiz that Shakatany had posted up, and then I went to the homepage and found another hilarious quiz. All customers insulted equally!

You are a Philosopher!

Hmmmm... You're an idiot because you constantly think about the meaning of life, and why exactly we're all here. You more than likely have thought up a complex explanation, but most people think you're wrong (and you probably are).

What type of idiot are you?
According to the Ministry of Idiots

God damn. That's too funny. Go take it!

Yay, Chapter 1 of the untitled Spanderfic!

Wed, 18 Apr 2007 04:26:17 GMT

Ooh, shiny! Chapter One is here! I feel rather spiffy now. It's done and posted, yay! Take a peek!

Chapter Summary: Xander just staked a demon, not his best friend. But a five-second bout of dizziness changes his mind--drastically. Angel takes him under his wing.

Still rated R for "eff type words"

ETA: I named it..."Never, Already, Not Yet"

Chapter 1

I staked Jesse. I staked a demon. I staked Jesse. I staked—

Xander gripped the stake tightly and fought for balance as a wave of vertigo washed over him. A faint sound of chanting echoed in his head, and for a brief moment he thought he could smell beer and burnt wood. He regained his footing and looked around the Bronze. Buffy was laying into the whaddayacallems, minions, like they were toothpicks. Seemed like she was having fun, too. Willow was watching from behind one of the tables. That quiet guy, Angel, stood in the shadows against the wall, ready to jump in if either girl needed help.

I staked a demon—I staked Jesse. My best friend. A demon. Still Jesse.

He dropped to his knees next to the spray of dust on the floor and began to scoop it into a pile. A pair of large, dark shoes entered his line of vision.

“What are you doing?”

Deep voice, quiet. Mild. Angel. Xander looked up and met the eyes of his—what, friend? Teammate?

“I can’t leave him on the ground,” he said. It made sense to him.

Angel’s eyes scrunched up at the corners, like something hurt him. “I’ll find a cup for you,” was all he said in reply, though. He glanced around the dark club and headed to the bar.

Xander stayed where he was, on his knees on the dirty floor of the Bronze, guarding his last connection to Jesse and waiting for the big man to return.

Jesse? Jesse, man, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t mean to—you know I didn’t mean to, right? I mean—fuck, Jesse, I swear to GOD—you were pushed, remember? I promise, I won’t let Buffy’s Slayer shit make me forget you—that you—were still you—even after…

“Xander.”

He blinked at the sound of Angel’s voice and was surprised not to find tears in his eyes. He heard a quiet sigh above him, and suddenly Angel was squatting down at his level.

“Xander, snap out of it. I found you a cup. Got a lid, too. Come on, kid. I’ll let you space out later.” The soft rumble of Angel’s voice brought him slowly, painfully, back to awareness.

The cup was held out to him; he fumbled for it with shaky fingers. As he scooped Jesse’s dust past the lip of the cup with his palm, he offered Angel a weak smile. “Is it wrong that I’m not crying?”

Angel reached out for him, paused briefly before he finished the gesture. He squeezed his shoulder comfortingly, paternally. “No, it’s not wrong. You’ll fall apart later.”

Xander capped the cup and stood jerkily. “My dead best friend is in a Styrofoam cup,” he said wonderingly. He turned to Angel. “There’s something fucked up about that.”

Angel got to his feet as well. His eyes, sympathetic moments before, were hooded and dark. “Your best friend was a vampire at the end. Don’t let grief cloud your judgment.”

“Fuck you, man,” Xander said angrily. “That was Jesse, right up to the end. Even with the whole demon thing. It was still Jesse.”

“Do you think you’re going to stick with that belief?” Angel asked. “The Watcher will tell you that demons are soulless, evil creatures, and that you shouldn’t feel remorse or guilt.”

“People with souls can be just as bad,” Xander said. He rubbed his left eye absently. “Can we get out of here? I feel—I dunno. Not good.”

Angel looked across the room. “I think Buffy’s done playing with the Master’s Vessel. Come on. I’ll walk you home.” He made eye contact with Willow and mouthed ‘We’re leaving.’ She nodded back, her attention mostly on Buffy.

Xander shrugged. “Can I crash with you tonight? Don’t feel like dealing with my folks after all this.”

Angel seemed to stiffen in the night air as they stepped out of the club. “I’m, um, unaccustomed to having guests in my apartment. And you don’t even know me.” He eyed Xander and added carefully, “But if you think your parents won’t mind, you’re welcome to take the couch.”

“Thanks, man.”

Angel grunted. “This way, then.” He lengthened his strides, and Xander hurried to keep up.

They passed dark windows of stores and restaurants, and Xander halted at the sight of his dead-looking reflection. “I look like crap,” he said. His stomach growled. “Got any food back at your place?” He tried to catch Angel’s eyes in the surface of the window, but couldn’t find his image anywhere.

“My pantry needs a little restocking, but I think I could manage something,” Angel said. “Are you coming? It’s just a bit farther.”

Xander turned around. “Yeah. Coming.” He yawned and rubbed his left eye again.

“Is something wrong with your eye?” Angel asked, faint concern in his voice.

“I dunno.” Xander rubbed it harder, and pulled his hand away from his face reluctantly. “It just started feeling funny. Doesn’t hurt, it’s just weird. Kinda itches.”

“You can put ice on it when we get to the apartment,” Angel offered. “It’s just around the corner here.” He gestured down a well-lit street to a tall apartment building.

“Cool,” Xander said. “Right in the downtown and everything.” He yawned again, cradling the cup to his chest.

Angel smiled faintly at him as they strode into the lobby. “Long day, huh?”

“Yeah.” He blinked the encroaching sleep from his eyes. “The longest.”

“Well, I have a very comfortable couch,” Angel said. He steered Xander into the elevator and pressed the button for his floor, digging into his pockets for his key.

“Good to know.” Xander followed Angel out the elevator and down the hall to his door.

Angel pushed the door open and gestured. “Come on in. I’ll find you some extra blankets.”

Xander stepped past him and wandered into the living room. It was sparsely furnished, with a mismatched armchair and sofa, and a bulky television set. There weren’t any pictures on the walls, and heavy curtains were pulled over the single window. It’s like he hardly lives here, he thought, setting down Jesse’s makeshift urn on top of the TV.

He turned this over in his head as he walked out and into the kitchen. Ooh. A coffee machine. “Hey Angel,” he called out. “Do you mind if I make some coffee?”

“Nah, go ahead,” came the muffled reply. “The coffee’s in a bag in the fridge. Make enough for two, will you?”

Xander opened the door to the fridge and stared, incredulous, at the next-to-empty shelves. That’s interesting. On the top shelf were a carton of orange juice and a large thermos. Below that was a saran-wrapped bowl of what looked like oatmeal. A small brown paper bag in the fridge door finished off the inventory. He took the bag out and, after a moment of indecision, gave into curiosity and grabbed the thermos as well.

He waited until the coffee was set to start percolating, and unscrewed the lid of the thermos. A faint metallic scent rose from the inside. He looked down at the vivid red contents and couldn’t summon up any emotional response. “Hundred to one that’s not cranberry juice,” he said aloud. He heard footsteps coming into the kitchen and looked up from the thermos. Angel stared back, a wary expression on his face. “Should I be freaking out now, or are we cool?” he asked.

Angel looked down at his hands, and back up. “It’s pig’s blood,” he said, voice low. “I buy it from the local butcher.”

Xander shrugged. “No snacking on the tasty humans?”

“Can’t,” Angel said. “Or won’t. It’s been so long, I’m not sure which one it is any longer.” He moved to the cabinet and grabbed three mugs. “Got cursed with a soul about a century ago. It makes things…difficult.”

Xander accepted the mug of coffee and passed him the thermos of blood. “Difficult how?” he asked. He sipped at the hot, black coffee.

Angel poured a measure of blood into the third mug and stuck it in the microwave. He leaned against the counter and rolled his mug of coffee between his hands. “Think of it this way. Humans all have basic urges, instincts, and wants—food, sleep, sex, violence, companionship. They also have a society-imposed moral code that gives them ingrained inhibitions. You might get hungry, but you won’t stop in a restaurant and eat off someone else’s plate. Unless you get off on it, you’ll wait until you’re home to have sex. And so on and so forth. For the most part, humans are self-policing creatures.”

Xander nodded. “I’m with you so far.”

Angel took his mug of blood in his spare hand and inclined his head toward the living room. “Let’s go sit.”

Xander followed him back out into the living room and flopped down on the couch, now piled with blankets and a pillow. Angel took the armchair and continued his explanation.

“Demons have the same instincts and desires, but the urge to obtain them is far stronger. We also have next to no inhibitions. If we’re angry, we kill people. If we’re hungry, we go out and drain someone dry.” He paused and took a drink from one of his mugs.

“So,” Xander prompted.

“So imagine a demon with over a century and a half of torture, murder, and rape under his belt suddenly finding himself with a human conscience and moral compass.” He raised his eyebrows at Xander. “I do what I must to survive, but I don’t give in to the demon. He is—chained, I suppose you might say. It’s become easier to ignore him as time has gone on.”

“Is that a good idea?” Xander asked. “I mean, I’m no psychology expert, but if you keep pushing part of yourself away like that, you’re going to end up with some serious issues.”

Angel stood up. “I don’t know. I’m more interested in keeping people safe than in my mental health.” He drained the mugs in quick succession and walked to the hall entrance. “Good night, Xander. Wake me up if you need anything.”

“Hey Angel?” Xander said suddenly. Angel stopped, his hand over the light switch. “Thanks.”

The vampire gave him a small smile and turned the light off. “You’re welcome.”

He tossed and turned on the couch, restless in his sleep. Disturbing images swept through his mind.

Blood in my mouth, the pack surrounding me. Angel, bleeding, wooden stake held high behind the blonde vampire woman. Dark haired woman, light haired man, English, drinking blood. That musician guy, Oz, turning into a wolf in the library. Angel laughing, taunting, Angel-not-Angel. Angel stabbed. New Slayer—evil Slayer? Angel, what happened? The mayor, the mayor! College—why am I not in college? Blond man again, hurt, dinner—Buffy, let him in.

He bolted upright in his makeshift bed, panting.

“What the hell?”

The faintest cracks of light shone around the heavy curtains. He struggled to drag himself fully awake, taking huge gulps of air in the dark room.

The light flipped on above him.

“Xander? Are you alright?” Angel leaned on the wall sleepily, hair mussed, shirt tugged askew. “I heard your pulse going crazy out here. Were you having a nightmare?”

“Nightmare?” Xander rubbed kernels of sleep from the corners of his eyes. “I—shit, I’m not sure. It was weird. Lots of pictures of people, like I was watching things happen. But I know this stuff’s never happened before. I mean, there were people I’ve never seen in my dream.”

“Tell me about it,” Angel suggested. He rubbed his hand across his hair and sat heavily on the couch next to Xander.

“Um.” Xander pressed his thumb and forefinger lightly into his left eye socket. “There was blood in my mouth, first—it felt like I was an animal. Then I saw you about to stake that blonde vampire woman—I saw a dark haired woman and a blond man drinking blood together—” he broke off.

Something flickered in Angel’s eyes at his words, and the big vampire clenched his hand into a fist atop his knee. “Go on,” he said evenly.

“A kid at school was a werewolf,” Xander continued. He bit his lower lip. “You were—not you. I think your demon had control. You got stabbed; Buffy stabbed you. A lot of it I don’t understand after that—I think there was something wrong with the mayor, like he was trying to do something. I wasn’t in college—that was about the only thing that made sense,” he said with a soft snort. “I saw the blond man again, the vampire. He showed up at Buffy’s looking weak and injured—it was horrible.”

“Anything else?” Angel asked. His knuckles were white against his already pale skin.

“No,” Xander said, “I woke up right then.” He looked at Angel anxiously. “What do you think this is all about?”

“I don’t know,” Angel said grimly. “But I suggest you call the Watcher and tell him that we’ll both be coming by the library this evening.” He stood up and walked to the armchair, where his coat was lying across the back haphazardly. He pulled a slim black wallet from a pocket and tossed a few bills to Xander. “Go get some groceries and decent clothes. I don’t want to risk you staying anywhere but here if you’re having prophetic dreams. Someone will have to look out for you while you sleep.”

Xander swallowed hard. “You—um, thanks,” he said. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do.” He turned and walked out of the room, saying over his shoulder, “Go. Buy food. Healthy stuff. Wake me up again when it’s sunset.”

Xander stared absently at the space Angel had just been in, clutching the crisp twenties in one hand. He’s one weird vampire, that’s for sure. He grinned and stood up, stretched his arms above his head. Still, now that he mentions it, I am kind of hungry. I bet a walk would clear my mind, too.

He shrugged his jacket on and ambled out of the small apartment, thumbing the light off as he went. Life's gone down the rabbit hole these days. Heh. Makes things interesting.

Home, finally, and dead on my feet...

Mon, 16 Apr 2007 04:16:35 GMT

No. This is not a long post. That's tomorrow. Tomorrow is a rundown of everything San Francisco and Santa Cruz, and a fic update. Tonight is me saying "Hey, I lived. I'm home. I own a new espresso maker. Tomorrow it and I will become friends, and we'll play with words for you. But right now I'm going to check my email and crash on my bed. I don't know if I'll even get my shoes off before I hit the sack."

Cheers!

JeansVenus

I started a new fic....

Wed, 11 Apr 2007 21:23:48 GMT

Okay, so I got sick and started watching BtVS on DVD. As a result, I got bit by a plotbunny for a new story. I feel pretty bad about this, since I haven't updated my HP fic for, um, 4 weeks or so. But anyway, here's the prologue.

Prologue

The one-eyed man stands just out of the flicker of firelight, watching the stars. It’s the third village in Uganda so far, all of Africa bleeding into one long stream of villages, faces, languages. He doesn’t turn when he hears the village chief step up behind him.

“Sometimes—”

He takes a sip of beer from the clay jar in his hand. It’s too warm, too yeasty. God, what he’d do for a fucking Corona.

“Sometimes I just can’t take it. All this looking and finding and moving on. I just—I want to go back to Sunnydale, you know?” He shakes his head and laughs. “I want to go back and find out it’s not a town-sized hole in the ground. That Deadboy’s still around, Spike, too.”

The chief makes a sound of encouragement, and he goes on.

“We really screwed things up. All of us did. So many chances to make a difference, and the town still got swallowed by the Hellmouth. All this shit and time keeps marching on. The Watcher’s Council’s practically turned itself into a fucking bunker. Everything’s—” He stops, swears quietly. “Everything’s just too much, and out here, with just my memories…the what ifs kill me.”

He offers up a dead-looking grin at the nervous cough behind him.

“I should get over it, really. I know that. But all this crap keeps running through my head, and nights like this….” He shivers. “If it weren’t for the demons outside the village, the LRA would’ve been here five times over already. It’s fucked. It’s seriously fucked.” He drains the jar of beer and grimaces. “I can’t do jack to fix it. Got any suggestions?”

He drops his jar at the unexpected answer.

“Well, actually, Mr. Harris—”

The man spins around. In front of him is a short, stout man, with sallow skin and an embarrassed expression. It is not the chief. Everything about him is out of place in this remote village. His very being screams of otherness.

“Actually, Mr. Harris,” the short man continues, “We’ve been debating this very situation for a while. None of us were pleased with the outcome, you know—well, Murphy was, but Murphy’s a bit of a lone ranger in that aspect—I’ve been delegated to offer you a re-do.”

The one-eyed man stares. “Um. You said—and. Wait. Debating—who the fuck’s Murphy?”

The short man coughs uncomfortably. “You’ve heard of him. ‘Murphy’s Law.’ He’s one of the Powers.” He rubs the bridge of his nose wearily. “Should you accept our offer, he’s been banned from Sunnydale.”

The one-eyed man squats down on his haunches. “No more sinkhole?”

“No sinkhole.”

“All the messed-up shit that happened before that?”

“All gone.”

“How far back does this go?”

“I can’t tell you. But it’s early—very early.”

The man looks up at the unassuming face of the delegate of the Powers That Be and shrugs. “I don’t have any objections. Let’s do it.”

The short man blinks, surprised. “No more questions?”

“Nope. If you’re as pissed about the fallout as I am, you probably have everything taken care of.” He grins, taunting, enticing. “Bring it on, man. Come on.”

“Mortals. So impatient.” The short man draws a handful of sparkling powder from his coat pocket and blows it into the air, into the one-eyed man’s face.

A roaring sound fills the one-eyed man’s ears, bright colors streaming past his manic smile. Above the noise and lights, a howling chant takes over his mind. The last thing he sees is the fire of the village. Then all is black, and all is quiet.

very clever with maracas

Real life, fanfiction, and an apology

bizarre spelling choices of the fen

I can't believe I'm doing this.

Obviously that core of inner strength likes to pillage and plunder...

Are You Damned?

Original Fic, HP Fic, and NANY

Never Already Not Yet 03/?

Hammurabi Part 2: response to werewindle's 3 little words challenge

Hammurabi Part 1: response to werewindle's 3 little words challenge

Putting Real People (or their quirks) In Stories...The Good, Bad, and Really Ugly

Never say I'm afraid of Manic Panic...

Never, Already, Not Yet Chapter Two

3 little words challenge for Summer Fest 07

Little expository entry...thing...

*laughing into my hat right now*

The Great LJ Fuckup of '07

A ridonkulous HP one-shot

Uncle Mike

Dear Underage Reader: potential trouble on my Yahoo! group

My fic has a title now!

Angsty Spander for sevendeadlyfun

Yay, Chapter 1 of the untitled Spanderfic!

I staked Jesse. I staked a demon. I staked Jesse. I staked—

Home, finally, and dead on my feet...

I started a new fic....

laughing into my hat right now