Part Four (by Scribe)

Notes: Class Chondrichthyes is the biological classification of sharks.

The Armanda Pittman Women's Medium Security Correctional Institute
(unaffectionately known by the residents as the Arm-Pitt)--

The guard walked into the common room, carrying a large stack of mail. "All right, people, listen for your name. We got Munez, we got Castleberry. Something from tha kinfolk in Arkansas, Minnie Pearl. Yee-haw."

Faith watched as the prisoners shuffled up to retrieve their mail. The gap toothed woman who came for that last piece didn't have the brains or the self-respect to spit at the idiot cow-bull. Strange how many people seemed to think that wearing a uniform made them Donna-fucking-Rickles.

"Just."

Faith looked away from the guard and sorted through her cards, studying them. She stared thoughtfully at the deck sitting in front of the check kiter across from her. *Let's see... split corner. That means it's a red face card.* She plucked two cards out of her hand and laid them on the table. "Two." The woman slid two cards over to her. *Bingo. Queen of hearts and a jack.*

"Just?"

The shoplifter on her left took four. *Amateur.* The abusive mother took one. Faith idly thought that she really ought to break one or two of the bitch's bones some time soon. She kept whining about post-natal depression making her put her three-month-old daughter in that breadbox and leave her in the Wal-Mart. Her defense attorney had gotten her leniency by claiming that since she'd left the baby in a public place she'd obviously meant for it to be found without injury. Faith rather doubted that, since she remembered that the woman had duct taped the box till it was almost airtight. As the woman frowned at her cards, complaining peevishly about not being allowed to touch-up her roots, Faith thought *Or maybe I should do something a little more permanent.*

She heard the footsteps approaching, of course. Hell, you didn't need to be a Slayer to hear that cow in her steel-toed clodhoppers. "Just."

Faith tossed two of the silver pressed cardboard disks they were using for chips into the center of the table. "Bet twenty." There was silence. She looked at the shoplifter. "Well? It's your turn. In, or out?"

"Just!" A stack of envelops whapped down on Faith's shoulder.

Faith didn't look around. The other poker players were wincing. This guard was new. She'd heard the rumors about Faith, and instead of sensibly deciding to give the ex-Slayer a wide berth, she'd obviously decided that if she could intimidate the reputed prison badass, the other inmates would be in awe of her. She was correct about that, but it was a stupid, stupid move.

"You pay attention when I'm talkin' to you, Just!" The guard was trying for a snarl, but it came out closer to a whine.

Faith sighed. *Shit. I guess if I rip her throat out , I won't be able to finish this hand. I don't think anyone else has more than two pair, and I'm not going to give up on a full house.* She kept her voice calm. "Oh, were you talking to me, ma'am?"

"You know damn good and well that I called you to get your mail."

Faith turned her head to look up at the other woman, studying her closely. "Um... Richards, is it? Miz Richards, how could I know you were speaking to me? My name isn't Just."

That had been a major source of irritation to the paper-pushers in the system, and Faith had found what satisfaction she could from frustrating the record keepers. When she was arrested and they'd asked for her name, she'd told them--Faith. When they asked for her surname she'd told them that there was no surname--it was just Faith.

Apparently the system couldn't function with single named individuals. They were confident that they'd eventually dig out her full name, but till then they needed something for the records. Doe had been suggested, as had Roe, but some unknown and unnamed, low level, red tape loving drone had read her original arrest report, gotten waggish, and entered her temporary name designation as Just, Faith. Faith intended to look them up and eviscerate them when she got out of this pit.

But that was for later. Right now she was laying low, and it wouldn't do to draw attention to herself. She'd just have to put off rearranging Miz Richards' facial features.

Richards reacted in a predictable manner. She scowled, saying, "Bitch, your name is Eleanor Roosevelt if the system says it is. I ought to just keep this thing."

Faith nodded cheerfully. "You could do that. My lawyer is getting bored lately, so he'd love something to keep him occupied."

"I'd be happy to talk to him personally," Richards sneered.

"Oh, Lindsey will be happy to hear that. You know, for some reason, most people are rather hesitant to talk to any of the Wolfram and Hart associates."

Richards blinked. She couldn't put her finger on anything specific, but she got the feeling that the law firm Faith had mentioned were two-legged members of class Chondrichthyes. She suddenly noticed that most of the room was watching this little exchange. She was pissed with this smart-mouthed con, but she couldn't do anything with this many witnesses. Instead of slapping her, like she wanted, she flipped the envelope at Faith, making sure that it missed the table and floated to the floor. Faith smiled, looking back at her hand, "Ought to work on your aim, ma'am." The guard's broad face flushed as, followed by sly snickers, she stomped back up to the front of the room to finish distributing the mail.

Faith played out her hand, ignoring the envelope, and won the pot. She said casually, "Crystal, baby, be a good girl and pick that up for mama." The tiny blonde who was sharing Faith's cell had been sitting nearby, watching alertly for any service she could provide--aside from the ones she usually provided after dark. She hopped up and retrieved the envelope, handing it over.

Faith accepted the envelope and examined it while the cards were collected, shuffled, and dealt. *What the hell? What was up with that stupid bitch? There's no Just on this thing, only Faith, and there could have been another Faith. Oh, well, it's mine now.* She teased the envelope open, pulled out the card, and studied it.

"Hey, Scary! You playin' this hand, or what?" said the dealer sourly. Faith lowered the card just enough to look at the dealer over it. The dealer swallowed. "Right. I'll just study my cards a little longer."

Faith returned her eyes to the card. She looked at the envelope again, then at the card. Finally she looked at Crystal. "Ya know, sweet cheeks, you're the only thing about this place I'm gonna miss in the least."

Part Five (by Kittygirl)

note: the song that follows was recorded by Elvis Presley, lyricist unknown...

Sunnydale, at the Magic Box…

Dawn Summers, now 23, leaned against the freshly polished wooden countertop and heaved an enormous sigh of relief. Tomorrow was the grand reopening of this place, and she and Anya had been working nonstop for weeks getting it all together. Everything was done, stocked and shiny, painted, re-stained , plumped and tweaked and exhibited to the highest level of perfection they could accomplish, and she, little Dawny, had seen to all of the ordering, layout, and general design of the place all by her little Dawny self.

What had Anya contributed? Well, Anya had contributed the mysterious wealthy backer, and Anya had managed to perch herself as often as demonly possible upon Dawn’s narrow shoulders, just to make sure that her partner wasn’t spending so much that their profit would be eaten away entirely once the ball got rolling. Wealthy funding or no, Anya did have an eye for the money, which, Dawn tried to think, would guarantee at least early success for an enterprise that Dawn held dear.

This was the Magic box, new and renovated, but still the same place, still where they had all gathered and learned together. She’d spent her teen years here, misguidedly longing for an older boy with dark hair and eyes, whom she had many wasted tears later learned was a gift to her, an older brother sent by some divine being to watch her grow up, and for a vampire who would never allow her to be hurt without retribution… This place was as much home to Dawn as the Summers house, and it gave her joy just knowing that she’d restored at least the building, if not yet the crowd.

And then, as Dawny stood surveying the fruits of her labors, a light came on in the nook where ancient tomes were stored, and the music began, filtered beautifully through the new stereo system.

Out stepped Anya, swaying slowly and lip-synching seductively to the first few lines of the song. She wore tall black boots and a very simple blue dress which buttoned all the way down the front. Her hair, grown long, was swept into a loose, sexy up do, and her lips were as red as lipstick could bold them.

//You look like an angel
Walk like an angel
Talk like an angel
But I got wise//

Dawn had a feeling. She’d been Anya’s friend for far too long not to sense dangerous fun when it swayed its hips in her face. She smiled, but was glad that they hadn’t yet taken down the tarps they’d used to cover the widows. With subtle steps, she backed her way toward the front door, keeping her eyes glued to the all out performance that her friend was giving.

Positioned with her back to her audience, Anya sang the last of the slow bit of the song over one shoulder, then...

//You’re the devil in disguise
oh yes you are
the devil in disguise!//

Down came the hair; off came the dress, in two fast jerks. Suddenly Anya was down the ladder, dancing like a maniac, flinging that blond hair in wild go-go abandon. She wore nothing but a pair of low slung red bikini panties that were quite the perfect compliment to her lip color.

Dawn locked the door.

Sure, it wasn’t love, but the sex wasn’t bad either.

Part Six (by Scribe)

Wesley Whyndam-Pryce's apartment, Los Angeles--

Wesley, feeling totally debauched and completely satisfied, rolled onto his side so he could watch his lover dress. He sighed.

Angel looked up from buttoning his jeans, a slight smile curving his lips. "What? Thought of some other act of decadence you need performed before I leave?"

Wesley's tone was wry, "Angel, I've told you before, I can ALWAYS think of another act of decadence. All that research, you know. Whether or not we would be physically able to accomplish it would be another matter, given the work out we've just finished." Angel was standing close to the bed. Wesley reached out and managed to skim a fingertip around his navel. "It's just that I'm always sorry to see that delicious, pale skin covered up again." He sat up, wrapped his arms around Angel's waist, and rested his cheek against the vampire's cool belly. "I hate it when you leave."

Angel caressed Wesley gently, running his hand through the other man's sleek, dark hair. "We've talked about this, Wesley. It doesn't have to be like this."

Wesley sat back, turning away to pluck his glasses from the bedside table. Oddly enough they were actually there--usually there was no telling WHERE his glasses would end up when he and Angel started making out. More than once they'd stepped on them. Once they'd found them halfway down the kitchen sink drain. Angel smiled nostalgically. That would be the time he'd ambushed Wesley while he was washing dishes.

But now as Wesley perched the glasses on his nose, Angel felt his smile fading a bit. He had come to know Wesley well enough to recognize a distancing gesture when he saw one. Wesley used his glasses as a shield and a mask, hiding his emotions, his self. That was one reason why getting them OFF him was one of Angel's favorite occupations.

Angel sat beside Wesley, putting his arm around the other man. "When are you going to move in with me?"

Wesley sighed, looking down at the floor. "Angel... it wouldn't work."

"You're worried about what the others will think." Angel tucked a finger under Wesley's chin and made him look at him. "Wes, maybe we haven't made a formal announcement, but they KNOW. They're not clueless." He thought. "Well, maybe Cordy is, but I think that's more because she doesn't WANT to know." He smiled. "She acted all annoyed, but she really enjoyed that little crush you had on her when you first arrived."

Wesley rolled his eyes. "Please, don't remind me of my youthful foolishness."

"You were cute," Angel protested. "I loved the way you used to get tongue-tied, talking to her." His smile warmed. "Then when you started stuttering when you spoke to me--" Wesley covered his eyes, and Angel laughed. "Damn, I loved that But Wes," he pulled the other man a little closer, his voice soft and serious, "we're past dancing around each other. We've moved on to the next stage of our relationship, and I want you with me, all the time."

Wesley sighed. "Angel... it's just that here in America, outside of the military or a frat house, grown men only live together for one reason, and... and I don't want to be labeled." He turned pleading eyes on his lover. "Can you understand? I've spent my entire life trying to fit into the bloody mold that my family set up for me. I've started to break out of it a bit, and God knows you've been a big part of that. But if I move in with you, I'll be slotted again."

"I see." Angel stood up, picking up his sweater.

Wesley winced. There was a distance in the vampire's voice. Oh, bloody hell, Pryce, you've stuck your foot in it this time. He reached out to touch Angel, laying his hand on the vampire's hip. "It's a fantastic slot, Angel. You're so wonderful, and I've never felt like this before, not for anyone. It isn't you, it's..."

"Please don't finish that sentence," Angel said sharply. He moved away from Wesley, and the ex-Watcher let his hand stay there for a moment, as if wishing that his lover would return to his touch, then reluctantly let his hand drop. He watched sadly as Angel slipped into his jacket and went to the bedroom door.

As he was leaving, Angel turned back and looked at Wesley, his eyes dark with hurt, "That's such a fucking cliché, Wes. 'It's not you, it's me.' Christ. I suppose next you'll say 'I want us to be friends'." He went out, and a moment later Wesley heard the front door slam.

Wesley fell back on the bed, limply, staring up at the ceiling. "Lovely, Pryce. What a master of intimacy you are, you stupid, sodding git!"

He rolled onto his belly. *I think I just made one of the biggest mistakes of my life. I have to talk to him tomorrow. I have to tell him that I was wrong. He squeezed his eyes shut. Because I might, just MIGHT be able to live without him, but I damn well don't want to try.*

He got up and took a shower, letting the hot water soothe away the pleasant ache in muscles that had been well exercised by their lovemaking. After drying off he wrapped himself in his robe. *Angel calls it my Sherlock Holmes disguise.* The idea made him smile.

He trusted Angel to have taken proper precautions, but he went to check the front door, anyway. Old habits died hard.

There was something on the floor just before the door. Wesley's heart speeded up. *Did he leave me a message?* He picked it up and examined it, frowning. *No, that's not his handwriting. Sunnydale? Who in Sunnydale would be writing me? Buffy would just call--she has the number.*

Curious, Wesley started to open the envelope.

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

Cordelia Chase's apartment, Los Angeles--

Cordelia Chase was sitting cross-legged on her sofa, watching a movie. She was muttering to herself. "Hello, what is WRONG with this picture? The fact that it is a Friday night and I am on my couch instead of being wined, dined, and danced all around Los Angeles. Me on my couch wouldn't be too bad, not if there was some handsome guy sitting next to me." She felt the cushion next to her dip, and she glanced over at the empty space. "Thanks, Dennis, but you know what I mean. Dead guys don't count." She frowned. "Well, unless they're vampires, I guess."

There was a cool touch on her arm, and a questioning feel to the air. She sighed. "Oh, I'm just a little depressed. Things haven't been too spiffy in the romance department lately, you know?" The cushion un-dimpled, but she kept talking, not noticing. She didn't notice the noise from the kitchen, either. "I don't understand. I mean, I look just as good as I ever did, I'm still chic, I still have my charismatic personality. Why am I parked here watching...?" she looked at the screen, "Ew. Salem's Lot. That master vampire is grody. He looks like he's in game face ALL the time."

A brightly colored cardboard carton floated down to settle in her lap. Cordelia looked down at it and gaped. "Wha...? Dennis, that's my secret stash! I'd forgotten I had it. Where...? Oh, yeah, I hid it under that bag of frozen broccoli, so I wouldn't eat it." She peeled the lid up, exposing barely touched ice cream. "Ben and Jerry's From Russia With Buzz. Boy, I need this! Um, but I can't eat it with my fingers." She paused. "Well, I COULD, but that would be kind of gross. You only use your fingers if it's really, really soft, and you're spreading it on someone..." There was a tickle at her ear, and she giggled, hunching her shoulder. "No, I will NOT tell you about that, you goat." The tickle came again. "I mean it, you horndog!" She slapped backward, as if there was actually something there to hit, and found her fingers wrapped around a spoon. "Oh! Thanks, Dennis. You're so thoughtful." She sighed as she dug into the ice cream. "It's too bad we have this different-planes-of -existence thing. You'd be a great boyfriend."

She ate, letting the combination of sugar and coffee swirl soothe her. "I haven't had a steady boyfriend since..." She frowned. "Lord, was it Xander? How pathetic is that? I mean, Xander's all right, but he's with Spike now. My last boyfriend is now with another guy. That's the sort of thing that sends people into therapy. Are there any other prospects now?" She considered. "Angel won't work. That whole dating-the-boss thing is a big pain. And Gunn's with Lorne, so he's out. Hmm..." She looked thoughtful. "You know, Wesley has been infatuated with me ever since he arrived. I kept putting him off because, well, he's got that whole Watcher thing, and tweeds just aren't all that exciting, but... He IS sort of cute, in a button down way. He hasn't been trying lately. I guess he finally got the message that I wasn't interested. Darn. Figures that he'd catch the clue bus just as I was in need of some masculine attendance."

She carefully scraped out a thick vein of coffee swirl. "You know, Dennis, maybe I was too hasty. I mean, Wesley is the sort who'd probably go in for the niceties in dating--flowers and sweet cards and maybe even trinkets and such." She tapped the side of the carton with the spoon thoughtfully. "Maybe I ought to sort of encourage him from now on. In a not too interested sort of way, of course."

An envelope floated over her shoulder to settle on her knee. She frowned at it. "That wasn't in the mail this morning. Where did you get that?" There was a scratching sound at the door, and she glanced toward it. "What?" There was a gusty sigh. The envelope sailed through the air again, fluttering to the floor in front of the door. It slid out of sight under it, then back into the room. Again there was a scratch. "Oh, someone slid it under the door!"

The envelope arose and fluttered back to settle in her hands again. She examined it, frowning. "Sunnydale?" Her brow cleared. "Hey! Maybe it's class reunion time!"

She started to open the envelope.

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

A suburban home in San Francisco--

The young man crept down the stairs, lowering himself into the darkness of the basement room. He'd tried the switch at the head of the stairs, and hadn't been at all surprised that it hadn't worked. He paused before he reached the basement floor, eyes wide, letting his sight adjust.

It wasn't totally black--total blackness was a rare thing, after all. But all he could make out before him were vague shadows; looming shapes that he could only assume were boxes or stacked, discarded furniture. But assuming is stupid, and can get you killed, he reminded himself. He stood stock still, waiting for a full two minutes. When there was no movement, he finished his descent, then cautiously moved out into the room. He was supposed to sweep the room, make sure there were no dangerous intruders. He slipped through the gloom quickly, working the basement in quadrants.

There was a pitiful whimpering sound from the far corner. He approached cautiously. It was coming from behind a box, one that stood about as high as his thighs. A few years ago he might have gone around it, or even leaned over it to see what was hidden behind it--he knew better now. He said softly, "Hey. Come out from behind there." The whimpering increased. "C'mon. I'm not gonna hurt you, if you're not gonna hurt me."

A head poked up from behind the box. It was a boy--he couldn't be more than about four or five. He had flaxen blonde hair, large, wet blue eyes, and a runny nose. His little face crinkled. "I'se scared! I want my M-o-om!"

The first instinct was to pick the little guy up and cuddle him. It was a natural human response. That was why Connor ignored it. There had been a trace of demonic energy when he arrived at the house--now it was so thick that it was making his skin crawl. He smiled kindly at the child, squatting down. "Hey, little guy, don't be afraid." He crooked his fingers at the boy. While he was doing this, his other hand crept down, sliding up under his jeans cuff. "Come on out. I won't hurt you."

The child sniffled. There was a sly gleam in his eyes, one that most people would have missed, simply because it was so alien that they would have been sure that they were mistaken in thinking that they'd seen it. "You pwomise?" Connor nodded. The 'child' suddenly grinned, exposing dozens of needle-sharp teeth, and it leaped up on the box. Its body was not that of a pre-schooler. It was thick and muscular, the stubby arms corded, the blunt fingered hands disproportionately large and frighteningly efficient looking. The treble voice dropped to a growl. "GOOD!" It launched itself at Connor.

His intended prey did not fall back, as the thing had expected. Instead the young man lunged forward and up, whipping up the hand that had been dangling near the floor. The creature slammed into him, knocking him back on the floor. But instead of gripping the demon hunter's head as he had planned (the better to hold him as his throat was ripped out), the demon found itself plucking weakly at the five inch double bladed knife that was stuck in its throat.

Connor flipped the squirming creature off his body, reached up under his shirt in back, and pulled out the larger knife that he kept strapped there, haft down. He rolled the demon onto its back and stabbed it in the chest, high up on the left. The thing kept writhing. It pulled the knife from its throat, now slicked with a thin, yellowish fluid, and tried to stab Connor with it. "Damn it!" Connor swore, evading the feeble thrust and snatching the knife back. He frowned for a second, then his expression cleared. "Oh, right!" He jerked the knife from its seat, then plunged it back into the creature, on the RIGHT side this time. It stopped moving immediately. There was a farting sound, and the creature crumbled into what looked Gaines Dog Meal.

Connor made a disgusted sound, retrieved his knife, and wiped his weapons on a bandana, then resheathed them. He was pretty sure that if there were anymore of the boogers down here they would have attacked while he was defending himself, but he didn't take any chances--he finished the search carefully. He found the switch box in the last section, and flipped all the switches to on. The overhead light immediately blazed on.

He heard the basement door open, and went to stand at the bottom of the stairs, looking up. An elderly Chinese man was standing at the basement entrance, gazing down at him with an expression of calm, polite enquiry. Connor nodded. "A Harslip. That little girl is lucky that she didn't come down here when he tried to coax her. She'd be well on her way to being digested if she had."

The old man nodded. "Her parents will be very grateful that you have removed their problem. They will put up the proper wards to see that there is no infestation. As you know, when one appears, others soon follow." He tossed a canvas sack down the stairs. "There is a broom and dustpan near the stairs. Please remove the offal."

This wasn't Connor's favorite part of demon hunting, but he understood about keeping the environment clean. Demonic debris had to be disposed of properly, or all kinds of unpleasant things could result. As he swept the mess into the dustpan, he heard Chung come down a few steps. The old man moved slowly and carefully. His bones were becoming brittle, and a tumble would be dangerous. As he dumped a pan of demon mess into the sack, Chung said, "It took you a little longer than I had anticipated. Was there a problem?"

"Nah, piece of cake," Connor assured him, tying the bag closed. He carried it to the stairs. Hung folded his arms, staring at Connor silently. Connor sighed. "It took me two stabs." He thumped himself on the left chest. "Bam." Then the right. "Bam."

Chung shook his head. "You forgot that the Harslip's hearts are on the right side." Connor nodded, and Chung sighed. "Perhaps you should spend a little more time on demonic anatomy."

"Oh, come ON!," Connor protested. "I did fine. He's dead, isn't he?" He shook the sack. "He's resting in pieces."

"And if there had been more than one, Connor?" The young man was silent, and Chung nodded. Without saying anything else, he turned and went upstairs.

Connor followed grumpily. He was twenty-five, dammit. Buffy Summers had been demon slaying when she was sixteen, and he bet that her Watcher hadn't nagged her as much as Chung nagged him. Well, Chung didn't actually NAG... *But he can say more without saying anything at all than anyone I know.*

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~

A dark, lonely street in Los Angeles--

Angel scowled, shoving his hands deeper in his jacket pockets as he walked. *Damn it! I pushed. I SWORE to myself that I wasn't going to push him. But I didn't think he'd still be that skittish. He sighed. I'll have to talk to him tomorrow and let him know that I want him any way I can have him.*

A car turned onto the street, cruising toward him slowly. He was alerted even before it drifted over to his side of the street and slowed. He stopped, tensing, ready for anything. Well, not exactly ANYTHING. He wasn't ready for his son to pop his head out of the driver's side window and grin at him. "Hey, Dad."

"Connor!" The apprehension washed away immediately, and he hurried over. "What are you doing here? Why didn't you call and tell me you were coming?"

Connor shrugged nonchalantly. "Ever hear of spontaneity? I just got the urge to see you again. It's been a long time."

Angel felt guilty. He hadn't seen his son in close to five years. When Connor had moved in with Chung Hu six years ago, they had intended to keep in close touch, spending holidays together, at least, but... Life had gotten complicated. They'd corresponded regularly, and talked on the phone, but somehow all plans to meet and spend time together had fallen through.

"Don't just stand there!" Connor grinned. "Hop in. I have something I want to show you. You'll never believe it!"

Angel climbed inside and Connor pulled away. Angel said, "How's Chung doing?"

Connor shrugged. "All right. Getting old, but aren't we all?" He glanced at Angel. "Well, not ALL of us, I guess."

"How long are you here for? You need to see Wesley tomorrow. I think he's missed you almost as much as I have."

"Oh, I expect I'll be seeing the Watcher somewhere down the line."

There was silence for a few moments. Angel was only a little puzzled. Connor had never been the most talkative of people, but it would have seemed logical to think that he'd have more than that to say, after such a long absence. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see--it's a surprise. I'll tell you this much--it's on the waterfront."

Well, that was clear enough. They were almost at the docks now. Connor pulled up in front of a dark, hulking warehouse, one with a pier right at the back, and parked. "It's in there. Follow me."

"Connor, what's all this about?"

Connor didn't answer--he just disappeared inside, and Angel followed him. The warehouse didn't seem to be in use. In fact, there was only one thing in the entire space. It looked like a big, rectangular box or chest, a little more than six feet long, and a little more than three feet deep. Connor pointed to it. "Go have a look at that. You're just not going to believe it."

Angel advanced to within a few yards of the box, then stopped, frowning. This didn't feel right. He turned back toward his son. "Connor, I'm going to ask you again--what's going on?"

Connor sighed, but he was smiling. It wasn't a nice expression. "Just go to the fucking box, okay?" Angel stared at him. "You're going to be difficult, right? That's okay, I brought a little persuasion." He reached inside his jacket and withdrew a large cross, extending it toward Angel.

Startled, Angel cringed back a step, raising an arm protectively. "Son, put that away! What are you doing?" Connor feinted toward him, and Angel moved back again. "I don't understand this. What are you doing?"

"I'm trying to move your undead ass!" Connor pulled a small water bottle out of his jacket pocket, flicking the cap off with his thumb. "This isn't Evian, Dad, so you better move if you don't want a faceful!" When Angel didn't move, Connor's expression tightened into a snarl. He swung his arm, water flying toward Angel in a sparkling arc. Angel jerked his arm up protectively. The water splashed off his leather jacket, but a drop splattered on his wrist, burning like he'd been jabbed with a white-hot needle. There was a hiss and a wisp of smoke as a blister bubbled up on his pale skin.

Angel backed up quickly till his legs struck the side of the box. Something jingled at his feet, and he looked down. Bright, thick chains snaked out from under the box. He looked up, just in time to see Connor drawing his arm back, a heavy throwing knife in his hand. Angel raised his hand in protest. Unless the knife was silver, or wooden and caught him square in the heart, he would survive, but still...

Yes, Connor had hunted him when he'd first returned from the Hell dimension, but they'd finally reconciled. Connor had been convinced that Angel had neither wanted to kill him, nor purposefully abandoned him. The bond that had formed was fragile at first, but it had grown through the years. At least Angel had THOUGHT so. But now... "Connor, please! Why are you doing this?"

Connor snorted. "Like I owe you an explanation!" He threw the knife.

He was fast. Angel didn't even have time to duck. It happened so quickly that Angel didn't even have time to wonder that it was the haft of the knife that struck him, and not the blade. It thudded into his forehead, snapping Angel's head back. Pain exploded in his head, dazing him. He sprawled back against the box, hands scrabbling at the rim. Then Connor was right in front of him. He kicked Angel square in the chest, and the vampire overbalanced, falling. He lost consciousness as he fell into the box, darkness closing over him.

~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**~~**

Somewhere... near Los Angeles--

It was dark when he awoke. *Well, that's two good things, I CAN wake up, and there's no sunlight streaming down on me, so it could be worse. Was that a dream? Fuck, if it was, it was a nightmare. Connor... Connor wouldn't do that to me.*

He reached up to touch the aching spot on his forehead, and his elbow bumped something. *I'm laying awful close to the wall.* He reached out. *Canvas?* He slid his hands down, along the wall on his right. *Oh, crap. Wait a minute.*

He shifted. There was another canvas covered wall on his left--very CLOSE on his left, like right against him. When he reached to feel behind him, his hands banged into something about a foot above his face. "Fuck!" He kicked, scooting down, and his feet came up against another hard surface. He pressed his hands hard against the surface above him. This one wasn't canvas covered--it felt cool and slick, like plastic or porcelain. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! That damn box!"

He shoved and kicked, but the lid didn't budge, and he remembered the chains he had seen running under the box in the warehouse. No doubt they were now firmly wrapped around the box, locked in place. Angel forced himself to calm down. There was no use in panicking.

He went very still, using all his senses to try to glean some information that would tell him what was going on. Did Connor intend to just leave him chained in the box, in the warehouse? Surely not. The place had been empty, but it didn't have the neglected air of abandonment. It was probably still in use, and someone was bound to come around eventually.

There was movement, very subtle, but movement, nonetheless. It was... It was almost like the box was being rocked. Then there was sudden movement. The box jerked sharply, the foot sliding a foot or two, from the feel of it. Then the head moved. There was a squalling, scraping sound as the box moved. Angel started to pound on the lid again. "Connor! Connor, don't do this! Let me go and we'll work something out!"

Was that a laugh? There was another jerk of movement, then he was suddenly being tumbled in the box, and he knew it was falling. The fall stopped abruptly with a great washing sound. "No!" Angel fought, banging and scratching at the smooth surface above him. The box rocked gently for what seemed like a long time, then there was a thump. He'd settled. "Oh, Christ!"

There was no doubt in his mind what had happened. He'd been chained in the box, loaded on a boat, and he'd just been dumped in the drink, God knew where. *If I were breathing, I'd be hyperventilating right now. How long was I out, anyway? How long is it going to be before someone misses me? He shook his head. And if they DID miss me, how the hell would they know where to look for me? No one knew where I was going after I walked out on Wes.* He closed his eyes. *God, if I'd just stayed, and talked to him.*

He lay there for a while, he had no idea how long. Every now and then he'd hear a gurgle, or there'd be a slight shifting, or thump against the box. Angel fervently hoped that was driftwood or something. He didn't like to think about what might be swimming around out there. He wasn't entirely positive, but he was fairly sure that being eaten by a shark would prove fatal, even to a vampire.

The noise, when it came, was loud in the confined space. Angel flinched wondering what now? It sounded like a cricket. It sounded like...

He dug frantically in his jacket pocket, feeling a wash of intense hope when his fingers closed around smooth plastic. He worked the cell phone out of the jacket, managed to get it up to his face, and thumbed the ON button.

"Angel? Look, I hope I'm not bothering you, but when I got in this morning and you weren't here, I just... I know you can take care of yourself, but... You could have left a note, you know."

Angel didn't know whether to laugh or cry, hearing the beloved voice, letting the slight lilt of British accent damp down his near panic. "Wes, God, I'm so glad to hear your voice!"

"Oh." Throat clearing. "Yes, I'm pleased to hear you, too. I... I'm not happy with the way we parted last night, and I want to talk to you about it. I feel that..."

"Wes, I want to talk about that, too, but not right now."

Pause. "Yes, of course. Face-to-face would be better. When do you expect to be back?"

"Um... well, that's kind of hard to say." Angel sighed. "You see, I was walking back from your place, feeling sorry for myself, when this car pulled up. Guess who popped out?"

Part 7 (kittygirl)

Location undisclosed... classified

*Let's see here; I've got the liquor, got the food. First I'll do the hardware store then the drugstore. Man on a mission, sir yes sir!*

Riley Finn strolled through the now quite safe little town, loving that he could walk from one end of the place to the other without breaking a sweat. In fact, he'd walked to and from his temporary digs twice already this fine day to deposit bags of supplies. It made him so happy, having killed the trizzak demon on the first day of this solo mission... He'd been bad, hadn't yet reported the kill, which gave him a two day window of fun if everything worked out

*Oh, it'll work out. It always works out.*

He whistled softly to himself as he entered the tiny hardware store. Empty enough, he figured, though he didn't really need to hide for this. People bought rope every day, and eye-bolts and o-rings. Nothing major here.

*Probably a good thing they can't read my mind, though. *mental laughter* Oddly enough, this is probably the closest thing I'll get to a gay bar in a fifty mile radius. Wish I could read THEIR minds.*

No, this wouldn't be the first time he'd had to resort to unconventional means when seeking out a playmate.

There were two men, both older than he cared for, and a woman (out of the question - hadn't gone that way since the divorce) browsing the aisles, but Riley managed to blot them out quickly enough when he noticed the younger man leaning against the counter.

Little blue vest, and an oversized badge exclaiming, "Let me help you!"

Riley grinned, wholesome as white bread, and approached the guy in the vest. "You can help me," he said, laughing, but just a little macho heh-heh.

"Um, sure." The man was older than Riley had first thought, probably pretty close to his age. He was cute, though, in a slightly geeky way, and the pouty lips didn't hurt...

*Fine, fine. He's small. I like that. Instinct says: probably my best bet.*

"Um," He glanced at the nametag, "Jonathen. could you show me some twine? I have something that needs tying up."

*Two days here...*

"Okay, but we have some really nice nylon rope, very strong," Jonathen headed back through the store, and Riley followed obediently.

"Thanks, but I prefer heavy twine." The burn scar on Riley's left inner thigh throbbed, almost pushing a gasp from between his lips, forcing him to up the wattage on the smile. Memories.

Part Eight (Scribe)

Wolfram and Hart, Associates--Lindsey McDonald's office--

Lindsey McDonald carefully formed the fingers of his prosthesis around the gold pen, making sure that the grip was as tight as possible. When he was satisfied, he put a final signature at the bottom of the document before him. It was a sheet that was densely printed with legalese, terms that could be understood only by someone well versed in the more arcane statutes of corporate law.

He studied the paper one more time, sharp green eyes raking through the facts, making sure that there were no loopholes--well, none except those that could be exploited by Wolfram and Hart. He looked at his signature, checking to see that the two words were smooth and well formed. He could JUST manage this with the damn fake appendage, but there wasn't any real force in his script. If he ever needed to make a carbon copy, he was shit out of luck. He COULD sign with his left hand, he'd always been a little ambidextrous, but the signature turned out uneven, shaky--weak. You didn't show weakness in this profession, particularly not in this firm. Not in public, anyway, and it was damn dangerous to show it in PRIVATE--he'd learned that from experience.

Finally satisfied, he initialed the page, laid it back on a thin stack of similar documents, then pried the pen out of his hand, tucked it in his jacket pocket, and closed the file folder. Lindsey sighed gustily as he pushed it away. *Done. That little chemical factory is going to be a very nice asset. Of course we're going to have to find a way to fire the present staff and replace them, without having some idiotic union come down on us. I wonder which would be less expensive--digging up dirt on the union officials, or straight bribery? Probably the dirt. They might actually have some ethics, and the last thing we need is being reported to the federales. Those incidents are real bitches to cover up.*

Humming softly to himself, Lindsey stood, stretching luxuriously. *Time to celebrate a bit, I think.* He went to the discreet liquor cabinet set in one corner of his office, and opened it. After hovering for a moment, he chose the brandy and poured two fingers into a small balloon glass. Lindsey went back and sat in his chair, then swiveled to face the window behind his desk. It was one of the perks of his position, and he enjoyed it. The view wasn't spectacular, but it was still rather nice, watching the sun set behind the surrounding buildings.

Before he lost his right hand, Lindsey had often cradled a glass of brandy in his palms, letting the heat of his body warm the liquor. It wasn't so easy with one hand, but he managed, savoring the aroma. *Another little corner added to the empire. Another check on the plus side in my personal record. Power...* He took a sip of brandy, relishing the smooth bite of the expensive liquor as it slid down his throat, forming a warm glow in his belly. It wasn't enough to distract him from the other warmth, farther down, which had begun as he read the paperwork and realized how perfectly his machinations had come to fruition. He resisted the urge to set down his drink and cup his hand over lump that was beginning to grow beneath his fly. *Nothing compares to acquiring power.*

"Not true." Lindsey was startled to realize that he'd said that out loud, but he wasn't really worried. The room was clean. As was his habit, he'd checked for bugs when he entered. *No, there is one thing that compares--at least for me.*

He did set aside the glass. He closed his eyes and slid his left hand over the front of his trousers where his growing erection was spoiling the drape of his expensively tailored slacks. *The only thing that compares to ACQUIRING power is letting GO of power. God, I need that. It's been too long, and I feel like I'm about to explode. I suppose I could find someone through the firm's contacts, though usually we provide release of the opposite sort. Damn, I don't dare risk going to a club, looking for...*

The door opened before the knock. "Lindsey, you're still here?"

His eyes opened, and his erection started to flag immediately. "Yes, Lilah. Apparently so."

Lindsey eschewed the usual wall-to-wall carpet in his office, favoring instead a hardwood floor and scattered Persian rugs. He heard Lilah Morgan's heels click on the bare patches as she approached his desk. He didn't turn around when she spoke. "This is the Lancer file?"

The name was on the tab, and she knew very well that he'd been concentrating on this project the last couple of days. "Yes."

"You've finished it, then?"

"We take possession at ten tomorrow, when the papers are filed at the county seat. I gave that to Harris. He'll pick up the file in about an hour, then drive over and spend the night in the firm's apartment, and file the next morning. I doubt he can screw that up."

"So you don't have anything more you need to do this evening?"

Lindsey swiveled back to face Lilah, eyes narrowing suspiciously as he studied the pretty brunette. Her appearance didn't fool Lindsey one bit--Lindsey knew very well that many of the most poisonous snakes could be very beautiful, if one looked with a dispassionate eye. "As I said--it's done. I just have to hand over the file."

"Good. Someone else can handle that."

"And why should someone else handle it?"

"Because we have a special needs client," she inclined her head, "if you're available."

Lindsey stared at her silently. He thoughtfully tapped the fingers of his false right hand on the desktop, barely registering the too-sharp thud of the hard rubber. He'd long ago learned to school his expression around his colleagues, never hinting at his true emotions. But his heart rate had speeded up in anticipation. "Might I know who this client is?"

"I couldn't say," Lilah demurred, "but he asked for you specifically." She smiled. "You've given him individual attention before, and he was quite impressed."

Lindsey sat back, unconsciously rubbing his prosthesis. "I'm not sure... Can you give me ANY information?"

Lilah idly brushed a fingertip over the file. "He requested the Stone Room, and he wants you to be ready for him when he arrives. He said that you'd remember how he wanted you arranged if I mentioned that the hook pulled free from the wall during your last meeting."

Lindsey's eyes widened, and blood started to pulse into his cock. He picked up his glass and drained the last of the liquor. "You'll see that Harris gets the file?" She nodded. He stood up. "How long to I have?"

She checked her watch. "A half hour. You'd best hurry. I have the feeling that he'd be displeased if your weren't ready when he arrived."

Without another word, Lindsey left his office and made his way to the building's basement. The level looked quite normal in the area around the elevator--nothing but file cabinets and slightly shabby office furniture. Lindsey, his stride rapid, passed through this area quickly, moving into the dimmer recesses of the floor. He came to a short corridor that had several plain, unmarked doors ranged along each side. He went down to the second on the left and entered a series of numbers on the keypad beside the door. There was a muted beep, and the door popped open a sliver.

Lindsey opened the door farther and entered, moving quickly, not glancing around at the grim stone walls. He took a small electric-spark lighter from a shelf near the door and used it to light the dozen thick candles that were mounted in sconces around the room. Then he quickly stripped, cursing the way his once sure hands fumbled. He'd gotten much better at performing daily tasks since he'd lost his hand, but excitement made him clumsy again. The last thing he removed was his prosthesis, setting it on top of the pile. He no longer paused and shuddered when he saw it lying there, disembodied. He hardly ever had the nightmares anymore.

Lindsey ignored the chill of the stone floor that seeped through the straw that had been spread on the floor. The straw had made Lindsey nervous the first few times he'd been in here, what with the candles, but there was a very efficient, very well disguised sprinkler system in the ceiling.

Lindsey opened the cabinet set in the corner, examining the equipment that had been left for him. The first thing he reached for was the tube of lubricant. He probably wouldn't get any more than what he applied himself, so he'd better be lavish. He had to hold the end of the tube in his teeth to unscrew the cap, and bite down on the plastic to force the clear gel out onto his fingers.

Lindsey braced his mutilated arm against the wall, bent at the elbow, and leaned over, spreading his legs. He was glad that there was no audience to his preparations. He hadn't learned how to do them gracefully now that he had only one hand. Lindsey squatted slightly, reached back, and smeared the gel the length of his crack, then rubbed strongly at the pucker of his anus. He would have preferred to take some time, teasing himself, but he didn't HAVE time. He had to ready himself as quickly as possible.

He slid the first finger in before he was entirely ready, but didn't stop. He shoved the finger roughly in and out, wincing when he added a second finger and began to spread them, stretching himself. *I'm too tense--this won't be enough, and I HAVE to get loose, or they might end up having to ride me out of here on a stretcher.* A cold shudder ran up his spine, his eyes widening as he thought, *Maybe with a sheet over my head. Damn, why did I agree to this?*

He knew that he wouldn't have been punished for a refusal--not openly, anyway. It was likely, though, that the plum assignments would begin going to others. He might even be 'transferred'. He still wasn't entirely sure if that wasn't just a euphuism for disposal--he didn't want to know. But that wasn't why he was doing this. He was doing it because he NEEDED to.

Giving up on digital opening, Lindsey smeared a thick coating of lube over the four inch black rubber butt plug, bent again, and inserted it, ruthlessly shoving it in till only the hand-hold was left outside his body. The client wouldn't mind finding him stuffed like this, and he should be open enough to take whatever came without being damaged.

Next Lindsey took the strapped, hard rubber tube, opened his mouth wide, and inserted it, using it to wedge his jaws open. The straps fastened with Velcro--a concession to Lindsey's handicap. This item was one of the creepiest things about his preparations. Lindsey had no objection to being gagged, particularly with this sort of object. It wasn't so much to stifle noise as it was to allow the client access to Lindsey's mouth, if he so chose. He had chosen on the last visit. The thing was...

Lindsey had been blindfolded when the client had entered the room. He had been bound against a wall, in a standing position. He felt the client moving up his body, moving up, and moving up... And then a thick, dripping cock had slid through the tube and down his throat, fucking quickly and roughly, banging his head against the wall. Lindsey had been too stunned by what was happening to tense up, and the client had finished quickly, shooting a copious load down his throat--the first of five that Lindsey was aware of. He hadn't spent much time on trying to figure out how the client had managed to fuck his mouth without resorting to a stepladder or platform--he was fairly sure that he might go insane if he ever figured it out.

There was a half-harness. It looped over his head and fastened under his right arm. His arm slid into another thick loop that snugged up past his elbow, and there was a ring set on the armband.

Lindsey laid the mask (also fitted with Velcro straps) across his shoulder, along with a length of rope, and went to the wall, moving a little awkwardly, feeling himself harden even further as the plug moved inside him. There were two plates set in the floor, parallel, and about three-and-a-half feet apart. There was a thick leather cuff attached to each one by a heavy metal ring. Lindsey easily strapped himself in, carefully bracing himself again with his right arm. If he was to overbalance once he was strapped in, he might very well break a bone.

When his feet were secured, he straightened up. He was facing a long, vertical slit in the stone wall. There was an eyebolt emerging from the slit. Lindsey threaded the free end of the rope through the ring on the strap that held his right arm, then through the eyebolt. There was a noose in the free end, and he put his hand through it, tugging it tight. The rope was long enough to give him almost complete freedom of movement. He put on the blindfold, being careful that it was snug, and that no light penetrated. Finally ready, he felt along the wall on the left side, at about eye level. He found a switch, and flipped it.

There was a whirring sound. Lindsey couldn't see it, but he knew that the eyebolt had begun to slide the slit, toward the ceiling. As it rose, the rope began to pull taut, and Lindsey's arms were drawn slowly over his head. When he was stretched straight, just short of being forced up on tiptoe, the bolt stopped moving. All there was now was to wait.

He didn't have to wait long--less than five minutes. When he heard the door open, his head jerked slightly toward the noise. There was a gusty, "Ah!" and some of the anxiety died. He'd done well--the client was pleased wit the tableau he found waiting. The door closed, and he heard the swish of straw as he was approached.

Lindsey found that he was trembling, and his prick was as hard as a rock. He wasn't touched immediately, but he felt heat all along his back as the client moved in close, and thick, moist breath against the back of his neck. He shivered even more violently, and there was a chuckle that sounded like gravel rubbing together in a thick pool of oil.

The client began to touch him. He was stroked from head to foot, no speck of flesh left untouched. The hands were big, but not freakishly so. The fingertips were slightly rough, and it was almost like he was being rubbed with very fine sandpaper. *It's just rough skin,* Lindsey told himself, over and over. *He just needs a good hand lotion.*

The palm that cradled his rigid cock was much smoother. The contrast between the smooth, almost soft palm and the rough, hard fingers drove him crazy. He tried to thrust into the squeezing grip, and that earned him another chuckle. One hand continued to work his prick while the other wandered up his torso to pluck and scratch at his nipples.

When Lindsey was ready to almost weep with lust and frustration, the plug was briskly pulled from his body. He gasped at the sudden ache, and before he finished drawing breath the client entered him with one hard jab.

Lindsey screamed, the sound muffled by the rubber plug in his mouth. *God DAMN! He must be ten inches--maybe more. And I think he's as thick as my wrist. I'm going to use the damn dildo when I get ready next time.* He winced, and it was only partially because the client was now pumping into him with hard, fast strokes. It was also because he had thought WHEN, not IF.

The client had hold of Lindsey's hips now, jerking him back and forth as he thrust into him. The cockhead jabbed Lindsey's prostate, and there was a hot burst of pleasure that weakened his knees. If he hadn't been held by the ropes and the client's grip, he would have fallen. The slight change in posture brought the client's cock directly over the hot spot again and again. Lindsey could feel the skin starting to abrade on his wrist, but he screamed because of intense pleasure. He came, knowing that his sperm would splash the wall before him. They didn't wash it between sessions (most of the clients liked the evidence of other incidents), and his spunk would joint the rest that was caked on the stones.

He felt the hot gush deep inside him, and had a brief memory of the time he'd tried to demand that his 'special needs' clients wear condoms. His superior had laughed. Lindsey had refused special clients for almost three months. He was assigned nothing more important that taking care of traffic tickets and shoplifting charges for the firm's less important clients. When he saw a merger consultation that he had done the preliminary research on go to Lilah, he had told the partners that he had changed his mind. He got a monthly blood test now.

The client didn't go soft. Under the blindfold, Lindsey closed his eyes and whimpered. The client kept fucking till there was another liquid explosion deep in Lindsey's bowels, then pulled free. Lindsey's head dropped forward, forehead bumping the wall, as he felt hot, thick fluid ooze from his loosened rectum and begin to trickle down the inside of his thighs. He ached, but he didn't HURT, so it was probably all come, and no blood. The last time he'd only bled a little from where the skin of his anus had split around the impaling cock. But he was better prepared this time, so there probably wouldn't even be that.

Lindsey was puzzled when he felt the client unfasten his ankle cuffs. With his feet free, he managed to get them under him and stand, rather than hang, relieving the pressure on his wrists. Good thing, too. His hands had been starting to go numb.

The client's hands settled on either side of Lindsey's waist, and he was turned, spinning on the rope that dangled him from the eyebolt. When his back was to the wall, the hands went behind his knees and lifted. Lindsey groaned as his weight fell on his bound wrist again. The client kept lifting, moving in between his spread legs. Lindsey felt his back curving as his legs were lifted higher still. His knees were hooked over a pair of broad shoulders, and the hands slid to go around behind his back at the waist, blessedly taking most of the weight off his arm.

*Why the hell did he put me in this position? Does he intend to suck me off? That's all he'll be able to reach with me like...* Lindsey shrieked as once again the hard cock stabbed into him, and the client began fucking him vigorously. He was stunned, unable to think clearly. Fragments of thought flitted through his mind. *How? He can't... Not possible from this angle.*

His head smacked steadily against the wall, and he stopped trying to think. *I just have to get through this. I just have to endure.* The hand was back, slick and warm this time, stroking him as the client pounded against his prostate. Astonished, Lindsey felt himself grow hard again.

When he climaxed, screaming, there was another laugh. A hoarse voice said, "Good, little one. Good fuck." He shuddered as a rough wet rasp laved his straining nipples. "You like this, yes? Little boy-slut."

Lindsey was crying now. The tears soaking the material of his blindfold, but there were enough of them to seep under, and trickle down his cheeks. The client pressed Lindsey hard against the wall and freed one hand. He used it to hold Lindsey's head still while he licked away the tears.

It went on awhile longer. The client climaxed once more in his ass, then twice down his throat. The last time he was using Lindsey's hair to jerk his head back and forth. There was a faint ripping sound, and the mask slipped away. Though he had his eyes shut, Lindsey knew because he felt air on his face. He kept his eyes carefully closed.

The client finished, pulling out so that he spurted in Lindsey's mouth instead of directly down his throat. Lindsey forced himself to swallow, so that he wouldn't choke. It was more bitter than salty, with an oddly fishy flavor.

The client pulled out of his mouth and spoke again. "Good little bitch. He doesn't peek, he doesn't peer. He waits for permission, doesn't he?" There was a rough touch on his cheek. "Want to see, pretty little one? Eh? I'm not so pretty as you." Lindsey squeezed his eyes tighter shut, and shook his head. "No?" There was dark amusement in the voice. "Wise little whore. You know why I came here tonight?" A hand passed over Lindsey's sticky, aching cock. "I was sent here to make a delivery, but I couldn't pass up another little time with you. Such a hot, tight ass. I brought you something, sweetling. I will leave it here for you."

Thick fingers combed through Lindsey's hair, almost tenderly. "I want you, little boy. I asked for you. You must be valuable to them. They would not sell, and I offered much."

Lindsey tried to cringe back from the touch. He felt a fumbling at the straps of his gag, and it was pulled out. His mouth gaped for a moment, jaw muscles stiff from being stretched. Dry lips pressed against his, and a tongue flicked into his mouth. It felt impossibly thin and long, tickling at the back of Lindsey's throat. He managed to scream. Over his own fading shriek he heard the client say, "There may come a time. Who can say?"

He heard a snap, then the whirr of machinery as the door opened, then closed again. The tension on his arms eased gradually as the eyebolt lowered. Lindsey cried out again as the circulation started again in his arms and hands. It took him several moments to lower his arms into a normal position.

He swayed back against the wall, using it for support so that he wouldn't slide to the floor. That would stretch his arms over his head again, and he was sure that he wouldn't be able to stand up again if that happened. He would just have to dangle there till someone noticed he had not come back up.

After a bit he managed to get some slack in the rope and ease his hand out of the noose. His fingers were clumsy, but he managed to unstrap the harness and free his mutilated arm. Finally he allowed himself to crumple to the floor, curling up on the straw. He still hadn't opened his eyes. He was afraid to. He lay like that for almost a half hour before he felt safe enough, and strong enough to open his eyes. Thankfully, the room was empty.

There was a small locker room at the end of the hall, complete with shower and hot tub. He intended to spend a long time in each of them.

Lindsey sat up, wincing at the various aches and pains. He felt filthy, in many ways. But the tension was gone. The sense that he was about to explode had evaporated. He felt almost peaceful--as much as he could in this life.

*But I'm not going with that one again. Not if they offer to cut my throat. Not if I think my brain and my balls are going to combust. He sighed, shaking his head. How sick am I? Isn't there anyone NATURAL out there who can give me what I need?*

He crawled over to his clothes, preparing to gather them up, and hesitated. There was something different.

There was an envelope tucked jauntily in the fingers of his prosthesis. Lindsey eyed it suspiciously. It was addressed to Lindsey McDonald, and the return address was simply Sunnydale. *Sunnydale? That's where Angel came from, isn't it?*

He tucked the card into his clothes, then stood and limped toward the door. Whatever it was, it wasn't likely that it was good news. It could wait.

Upstairs at Wolfram and Hart, Lilah Morgan's office--

Lilah touched the button on the high-tech walkie-talkie sitting on her desk, breaking the connection. She'd have to remember to go down to the Stone Room early tomorrow and remove the device's mate, which she had hidden in the straw. She shuddered. She wasn't going down there till it was broad daylight--SHE'D seen the client. It could walk around in broad daylight, passing as human--if it concentrated, but it prefered to move at night.

She was still breathing heavily, and there was a hot slickness between her legs. She'd intended only to listen in to see if she could gleen anything useful, but the aural pornography had been a bones. Lilah closed her eyes, remembering the grunts and heavy breathing, the meaty slaps of flesh against flesh, and LIndsey's helpless mewling. Lindsey was always so cool and controled. The idea of him, bound and writhing on a huge cock, sent another throb through her wet cunt. She slid a hand up under her skirt, past her garters, and plunged two fingers directly into her liquid core. She made three sawing thrusts, rubbingher thumb against her swollen clitoris, and came, shuddering.

When she was done she poured herself a drink, then went to stand at her window, looking down into the darkened street. A few moments later, Lindsey McDonald limped out of the building's exit, carrying his briefcase. He paused under a streetlamp and pulled something from his pocket, frowning at it. Lilah squinted, trying to see what it was. It looked like a pale envelope. He tucked it back in his jacket and went to his car.

As he pulled away, Lilah turned back and looked at her desk, studying the envelope that she had found sitting squarely in the center of her desk when she had returned from giving the file to Harris. It looked a lot like the one Lindsey had been carrying. Curious, she picked it up, murmuring to herself, "Sunnydale?"

Part Nine (kittygirl)

In L.A., at the Hyperion hotel...

*Why take the elevator when you can take the stairs? Good for the ass, and the soul!*

Fred giggled nervously, which was her way, as she began her step hopping exercise. Counting, counting, no one else in the hotel to make loud footsteps so good for counting... *So I'll do it. Sneaking away from the post for a few. No one here to notice. No calls for hours now, no one checking in, but Fred's not gonna worry, no. They're not assholes, just busy. They're not dead in a ditch, or several ditches. Just busy. So now I'm busy. Hear how loud I can run with my busy feet?*

Step, step, and with each one a different image of a dead friend in her head.

*Is it so selfish, not wanting to be alone?*

Not just dead, ditchdead. Bloody and twisted dead. Half eaten by demons and trailing innards dead.

*Should never have looked at those crime scene photos on that website. They post those warnings for a reason, you know?*

Step, step. Black Dahlia dead. Sawed in half and left like a broken mannequin in some vacant lot in Hollywood. Dead.

Turn, more steps. Losing count now.

*Morbid much? Shut up, imaginary voice of Cordelia. They're not dead, not assholes. Fighting evil takes time, and someone has to stay here and watch the phones, research, update the webpage.*

*Did I remember my cell phone?*

Stopped on a landing, Fred began to dig at the deep pocket of her favorite purple hoodie. Notepad? Check. Kleenex. Lip gloss. Calculator. Small, bullet shaped device that had turned out to be the best birthday present she'd ever received (and from Cordy, no less)...

*Aha. Good Fred, you remembered.*

She checked her messages, just in case, frowned, then resumed the climb.

*They're not assholes, not assholes, and certainly not dead. They would have been dead a long time ago if anything out there could make them... die.*

*Shit, what number am I on? Did I remember to mark the floor last time? I was going to. Ah, yep. There's the tiny dot of pink nail polish on the railing. Dot. You are here.*

Through the door, and out into one of the several un-renovated floors. Fred counted doors until she reached the sixth one on her right, then entered the falling apart room.

*Better than Christmas...*

Her bag was still there, untouched, and from it she pulled a single candle, her hidden stash of gummy worms, and a blanket. She placed these items on the floor beside the dusty mattress she'd dragged down from room seventeen.

*Think I'll open a window. No one hears ma all the way up here, right? A breeze might be nice.*

Window accomplished, Fred lit the candle with the last match in the book *Have to remember to restock soon*, then shimmied quickly out of her jeans, stopped for a moment, considering, then removed her panties as well.

She jumped onto the mattress, rolled up the blanket for a makeshift pillow, then dug around once more in her pocket until she found her birthday present, which she kissed once before turning on the buzz.

*Just breathe, Freddy...*

Breathing exercises had become essential in her relaxation. Breathing and buzzing. How else was she to get her mind off of the fact that practically every friend she had had taken a bite, then decided against the option for seconds.

*So Gunn didn't work out, so Wesley was awkward enough to seem uninterested... So Cordelia leaves me cold... I have my escape, yes. So what if no one notices just how often Freddy disappears. Think of her...*

Pocket again, for a folded peice of paper, and image printed off line. Sure, she'd never really met babysis23, but they'd communicated every day and most nights since they'd met up in that enchanted adult toys chatroom... They'd even gotten one another off a couple of times.

*Well, I got off. But from what I read...*

Fred gazed at the printout, a blurry, neck-down nude of a rather slender woman, small breasts, shaved and open. Just the right touch of the birthday present, yes, and she imagined her face pressed betweem those milky thighs.

"I can taste you, baby," she said aloud, bucking.

Press, press, buzz... "Oh, fuck!"

*Ahh, one down already. See what you do to me? Not even here, and yet my hands are really yours... What was that? I swear I heard a noise...*

Just a slight shuffling sound from the direction of the door. Fred jumped up, dropping her little vibrator just in time to see the envelope slide beneath.

"Who's there?" she began, but her phone was ringing.

"Shit."

*Fuck. No fucking privacy... Oh, now it's Wesley on the line. Perfect timing shithead.*

Part Ten (Scribe)

Former location of Sunnydale High--

There was no reason for it. The debris should have been cleared up long ago, the hole filled in, the lot smoothed, and some other useful public building erected. It should have been done years ago. Every now and then some public minded citizen would notice that a very valuable piece of city property was being allowed to sit useless, and they would begin to make noises, planning on bringing it up in the next city council meeting, perhaps get a petitions going...

It never happened. Something... death, illness, some other form of personal tragedy, always distracted the concerned citizen, and it would be forgotten for another few months, or years.

The lot was never quite as well maintained as the other city lots. For some reason the maintenance crew was slow and sloppy about this stretch of land, and for some other reason those in charge of overseeing them never saw fit to call them on it. So the lot was overgrown with weeds and bushes, and even small trees. There was a rusting hurricane fence around it, put up after an adventurous child or two had come out white faced and nursing a broken bone or dripping gash. It was festooned with KEEP OUT signs, but those never were much of a bar to the curious or the daring.

But still the lot was seldom visited, even by the derelicts who might have thought to find shelter in the tumbled ruins. It wasn't the fence, or the signs, that kept the ruins of Sunnydale High unviolated. No, it was something unofficial, but much more efficient, than anything set up by mortal authorities.

There is an aura that attaches itself to some places. It isn't always clear where it comes from, or when it was first noticed--it's just there. Even the animals avoid such places. No cats prowled and mated among the tilting walls. No birds nested in the slender trees, no insects crawled and buzzed. The rats and cockroaches that seemed universal were absent. Even the most inebriated winos and horniest teenagers avoided the place. Only those new to Sunnydale and so immersed in the 'real' world that a fairy could light on their nose and be swatted away as a dragonfly would consider even walking on the same side of the street as this tangled, brooding lot.

But the ruins were not entirely empty.

It should have been black in the basement. Oh, perhaps a thread or two of moonlight might have filtered through the tilted floors, but there was no explanation for the dim blue glow that suffused the basement. Even if someone was to notice the swirling, blue amorphous mass against one wall there would have been no practical explanation, as such a thing obviously could not exist in a sane world.

There were still dark corners in the ruined basement, and something, a shadow among shadows, stirred in one of them. A slender figure in a dusty black robes and a hooded cape stirred in its place beneath a tilted beam. S/he crawled out of h/er resting place and stood upright. Pale, delicate, but strong hands fastidiously dusted bits of debris from the robes, then careful tugged the hood forward, casting unseen features into even deeper shadow.

Next the figure checked the blue portal that swirled on the wall. Yes, all still in place. Hi/r head dipped, and s/he reached out with hi/r mind, feeling for the fragile, tenuous connections that would be formed when each token was delivered.

The Slayer, and the red witch, yes. Not the blonde one, though. That brought a frown. All three had been delivered to their household at once, so why hadn't she seen and touched hers yet? Ah, well, it wasn't yet time to worry about that. The creature kept searching. Both of the former Watchers, yes, and the wolf. The false Slayer, and the one who had taken on the visions, yes. Then there was the dark demon fighter and... ah, the demon who was now his lover. Lips curved in a smile. Peripheral, but the trickles of energy were already flowing in from them, so it had been a wise decision. The young girl who had been snatched from slavery was another tangential connection, but her added energy was appreciated. The blonde vampire and the tall, dark-haired boy with the smart mouth that hid a painful past--yes, good. The two who were so skilled at twisting and perverting the law. But that wasn't all... The sense of completeness was not there. Who had not yet been contacted?

All right, the blonde witch, but if the other two had received their summons, then surely she would, too. The youngest one, born of death. Ah, that was a dangerous one. S/he was looking forward to encountering him with a mixture of anticipation and dread. The government man, the one who was so sunny in appearance and so deliciously dark inside. And the warlock. That was the one s/he worried about. The sheer distance was an obstacle, and his reactions could be anticipated, but never predicted. He did, after all, worship chaos.

Then there was the dark vampire. The figure shook its head. He was the one element of this equation that truly worried the creature. Angel had seen and done too much. He was too many things. Demon and souled at once, having spent a time in Hell and returned to the land of the living, having lived in the world for two-and-a-half centuries, and seen all the evil that mortal man had to offer, and much that was demonically inspired. S/he had sent a summons to Angel, and then second guessed hi/r self, sending a minion to 'take care' of the situation.

Well, the connection had not been formed, so Angel had not seen and touched the token. Perhaps all had gone well, and s/he needn't worry about that particular potential disaster. Perhaps, but it would be better to be sure.

S/he stepped closer to the portal, feeling the pull and charge that it emitted, and passed hi/r hands before it in arcane patterns, muttering to hi/rself. The center of the spiral darkened, shapes coalescing in the miasma. Not very clear shapes, granted. The scene it showed was a dim, bare warehouse. Yes, too bare. Another few gestures, and a muttered incantation, and the scene shifted, melting to show how it had been a few hours before.

S/he watched the action unfold, nodding as the young man forced the vampire into the box, then chained it shut, got a motorized dolly, and moved it out the back of the warehouse. She passed her hand again, and the scene flickered. She watched as the box was shoved over the side into the restless sea, sinking quickly. Yes, good, good. Another change of scene...

This time the scene that was played out was not to hi/r satisfaction. There was a snarl as the portal resumed its normal state, and the creature began to pace. "Stupid, stupid, stupid!"

S/he wanted to believe that what s/he had just witnessed was of no significance, but was far to realistic to hope. Ah, well, it would just have to be taken into account, and dealt with. Perhaps the energy boost s/he would receive from the vampire would be enough to overcome any threat he offered.

But SOMEONE was most DEFINITELY going to pay.

Notes: Research material on recovering from heart injuries were scarce, so I did the best I could. All medicines mentioned are actually prescribed for heart problems, but don't take this as medical advice. I don't know the directions for how they should be taken.

Buffy Summers' house, Sunnydale--

Buffy winced as Willow painted iodine on her cut finger. "You're lucky you don't need stitches, Buff." Willow didn't exactly scold but there was a definite what were you THINKING of? tone in her voice. "And we didn't need any protein in the salad, since I made a meat sauce for the spaghetti."

Buffy looked at her friend sharply. Sometimes it was hard to tell when Willow was being serious and when she was teasing. Buffy sighed. "As much as I practice with sharp objects, you'd think I'd be better at cutting up vegetables, but I do it every time."

"You're just going to have to admit to yourself that you'll never be Benni Hana, and tuck your fingers under when you chop, hold things with your knuckles."

"Thank you, Julia."

There was the sound of a front door opening, and both girls looked toward the hall, anticipating their new arrival. Willow's face lit up as the thin blonde girl entered, but her expression tightened when she saw the thick stack of books the girl was carrying. "Tara! What are you thinking of?" She hurried over and quickly took the books, dumping them hastily on the counter. She took Tara's arm and steered her into a kitchen chair.

"Oh, honestly, Wills! I weighed them before I carried them. They only weigh twenty-four pounds, less than half my limit," She put a hand on Willow's shoulder and pulled the redhead down, kissing her softly. "I love you for caring, but really--I'm a grown woman. I know what I have to do. I'm not pushing it."

Buffy quickly turned to the cabinet and started collecting the plates and glasses they'd need for supper. She had accepted the fact that her best friend was a lesbian. She was truly happy that Willow had found someone to love, and she couldn't deny that Tara loved her. The emotions between them were almost palpable. Buffy knew all this. It didn't mean that she felt entirely comfortable with physical displays of affection.

Tara raised her voice. "Hi, Buffy."

"Hey, Tara. How'd it go today?"

"Pretty good. I did a full half hour on the treadmill, and my therapist says that pretty soon it'll be safe for me to take walks by myself outside."

"Tair..." Willow started.

Tara interrupted her, "But I'm not going to be pushing it, okay, Mom?" She sniffed. "Mm. Spaghetti?"

"I made it with ground turkey, so it'll keep your fat grams down, and you can have garlic butter on your bread."

"I'm so spoiled."

"Oh, you got something in the mail today. Sort of. Kinda. I think."

Tara's fair eyebrows rose. "Let me know when you're sure."

Buffy was setting the table. "We both got the same thing. At least WE THINK they're the same things. We haven't, like, opened your mail, or anything."

"Oh, good." When Buffy looked at Tara, the other girl smiled. "You didn't have to assure me of that, Buffy. You're getting much better at staying out of the personal areas."

Buffy nodded, then continued. "You see, they were in the mailbox, but I seriously doubt that they got there through the usual channels. No stamps, no postmarks, and they just sort of appeared after the daily mail delivery. The agreed upon theory is that someone wanted us to get them, but didn't want any more people than necessary to come in contact with them."

"Oo, sounds myst-erious!" Tara crooned.

Willow had given her lover's hair a fond caress, then moved on to slip the sliced loaf of Italian bread into the warm oven. "This isn't PBS Mystery Theater, Tair. If something is mysterious in Sunnydale, there's a darn good chance that something a lot more dangerous and annoying than a pledge pitch will be involved."

Buffy picked up the envelope off the counter and offered it to Tara. Tara looked at it a moment, then shook her head. "You don't want to see what it is?"

"Yes, I do--but not now. Now I want to rest, relax, fuel up, and socialize with my friend and the woman I love." She frowned at the envelope. "Considering the fact that neither one of you has eagerly told me what was in your envelopes, I doubt that it's anything that will overjoy me."

"She's right." Willow took the envelope from Buffy and slapped it back down on the counter. "There's plenty of time for that later, and it's time for Tara to eat, anyway. Tair, do you want your wine now, or with your meal?"

"Oh, save it for the food." She was foraging in her purse. "Water is good enough for swilling down the meds." She began taking out pill bottles. "Aldactizide, Diovan, Levatol... The doctor mentioned he might want to take me off the ACE inhibitor and beta blocker and put me on Normodyne. That would help with the prescription bills a little."

Buffy thumped silverware down on the table, grumbling, "Government says that you're sick enough to be disabled, but won't provide the medicine, when they know exactly how much money they're giving you, and exactly how much your meds cost, and exactly how much, or rather how LITTLE is left over, and..."

"Buffy," Tara said gently. "I seriously doubt that they know about my particular case." She shrugged helplessly. "I just slid through the cracks."

Buffy was gritting her teeth. "Yeah, but they can afford to keep funding the Initiative, and we all know how effective THEY are."

Willow and Tara exchanged looks that were tinged with exasperation, amusement, and affection for their friend in almost equal amounts. Buffy still had issues with the Initiative, and no one could say exactly how much of it could be directed to Riley Finn--her ex. To distract her, Willow said, "How about the Digoxin?"

"Didn't need it once today," said Tara proudly. "Not even after the exercise."

Willow beamed, hugging her, and Buffy couldn't restrain a relieved smile. Tara had always been a bit fragile, and then there had been the 'incident'...

--flashback, Ten years ago--

"I love you."

It was a cliche, but it worked.

"I love you."

How many times had Xander spoken those three words as Willow--what was once Willow--lashed him with black energy, with all the power of rage and grief, bruising and bloodying him?

Slowly the words seeped in. They touched the tiny, guttering spark of her humanity and fanned it back to life, and finally the possessing force gave up the fight and seeped away, leaving her weeping in the arms of the boy who had been her best friend for most of her life.

Xander had insisted on taking her to the emergency room to be looked over, and she had allowed it, too tired and numb to protest. They had been sitting in the crowded room, among whining children and miserable adults when they had overheard, "...died THREE times. They thought she was dead when they picked her up. She was at that same house where the other one had been shot, and somehow no one reported it till after the first ambulance had left. There was just a POOL of blood. I think they ended up giving her, like, ten units. The EMT puts the stethoscope to her chest and damned if there isn't a heartbeat, and damned if it doesn't STOP just as he hears it, and then they're FLYING her out here, working like sons-of-bitches while we're setting up the operating room, and..."

Willow was standing at the nurse's station before Xander even knew she'd moved. "Who?"

The intern gossiping with the candy striper blinked at her. "Private conversation, Miss."

Willow took another step toward him, and Xander leaped up, praying that one officious prick wasn't going to undo what he'd gotten himself beaten to a pulp to accomplish. "Look, man, she lost a really, really good friend in a shooting, and you're making it sound like maybe she didn't lose her, and maybe you can tell by looking at her that things have been kind of rough, so if you want to go along with all that 'first do no harm' stuff, then tell her who you're talking about." He finally paused for a breath. The intern was blinking at him. "Please."

"Um, I'm not sure. Something Irish sounding. Mac-something, but not the usual ones, like MacDonald, or..."

"MacClay?" Willow's voice was a whisper, a prayer.

The intern slapped the counter. "That's it! Say, do you know her? We had to go ahead and perform surgery without a release, and we'd really like to..."

Willow fainted. Xander caught her in his arms. The intern helped him ease her over onto a bench (which was finally vacated by other patients after Xander gave them a snarl worthy of Oz at his wolfiest), and the candy striper ran for smelling salts.

Xander said, "Before she wakes up, man, I gotta know. You said she died three times. Did that mean she just stayed that way the last time, or...?" He trailed off.

"She's in ICU. They operated on her for four hours, and managed to save her heart, but it isn't good. She hasn't woke up yet, and they're worried that there may have been brain damage. She lost a lot of blood, man, and she wasn it breathing much most of the time. There's a chance her brain could have been starved for blood and oxygen. They won't know if there's any damage till she wakes up." Taking the smelling salts from the candy striper, he paused before breaking the ammonia capsule under Willow's nose, and gave Xander a warning look. "If she wakes up."

Willow wept when Xander explained the situation to her, and wept again when she wasn't allowed into ICU. She had protested the 'relatives only' policy, but the hospital administration didn't acknowledge 'significant others of the same gender'. Sunnydale was not the most enlightened place on earth.

A day passed. Two days. Tara still hadn't awakened, but her vital signs had steadied, and she was moved to Critical Care. Her parents would not grant Willow visitation. Buffy and Xander had to lead her away more than once to avoid security calling the police.

Three days. There was activity on the brain scans, but they couldn't tell how much, and Tara JUST WOULDN'T WAKE UP.

Four days. Willow was staying at Buffy's house, spending most of her time curled on a bed, hugging one of Tara's blouses.

Five Days. The MacClay's appeared on Buffy's doorstep, wanting to see Willow. Buffy didn't want to admit them, but Willow had come down the stairs and insisted. They had sat awkwardly in the Summers' living room. They had told Willow about Tara's progress--or lack of progress. Mrs. MacClay had started crying, saying, "Willow, if you could..."

Her husband, expression stiff, stood. "This is a waste of time. Our daughter is gone, and we might as well face it. It's obscene to expect that this..."

His wife stood up and slapped him full in the face. "Shut up, you bastard." She turned to Willow. "We can't make her wake up. The doctors say they don't know why she's still unconscious. All the physical signs say she should be awake, but she isn't. One of them said that maybe she has to want to live. We've been trying to give her the will. I've sat with her, sang to her, touched her, told her how much I love her, told her that if she came back she could live her life as she wanted and I'd never judge her again..."

"Grace! Don't lower yourself to condone..."

This time she slapped him so hard that he stumbled, falling back into his seat. She screamed, "I'm trying to save my baby! You're willing to let her die if it means that you don't have to accept her beliefs and her love. Well, I'm not!" She turned reddened eyes back to a stunned Willow. "Please, come to the hospital. Talk to her. Try to call her back. Oh, God, I don't want to lose her."

Her husband had stood. "What about me, Grace? Do you want to lose me?"

The look she gave him was cold and calm. "I won't be losing you, Todd. I'll be throwing you away."

He left, and Mrs. MacClay took Willow to the hospital. Willow was taken to Tara's bedside.

She wavered as she looked at the girl she loved lying there, pierced with needles, hooked to constantly beeping machines, her chest barely rising and falling. She had pulled a chair next to the bed, reached out, and took hold of one impossibly thin, cold hand. "Tara? Little earth spirit? I'm here." She reached out to stroke lank blonde hair. "Come on, come home again. Tara? You can't leave me. I gave up my stuffed rabbit--who will I snuggle with?" Two days. She talked, she sang, she prayed. When the nurses were busy elsewhere, she chanted. She worked all the strengthening spells she knew. She slept in a reclining chair by the bed, her hand outstretched to touch her wounded love.

On the third day, Tara's eyes fluttered open. Willow froze. "Nurse?" It was a dry whisper. She was hoarse from the hours of speaking to Tara, trying to make contact. Willow cleared her throat. "Nurse? NURSE!"

The nurse came, then the doctor. When he tried to shoo Willow out of the room, Tara had proved she had enough energy to be agitated, and Willow had been allowed to stay.

When the doctor was satisfied that Tara was not likely to lapse into unconsciousness again, he went to phone her mother, leaving the two girls alone. Tara had weakly crooked a finger.

Willow, understanding, had bent close. Tara's lips had moved, and the sound she made could scarcely be counted as a whisper, but Willow understood. "...missed you... never go..."

Willow kissed her forehead. "No, love. Never go again, either of us.

Present day, Buffy's house--

In the room that they shared Willow, already in her short cotton nightgown, watched as Tara buttoned her pajama shirt. Through the deep V neck, Willow could just make out the top of the thick pink squiggle of scar that bisected her lover's chest. Willow loved that scar--loved to kiss it and trace it with her tongue when they made love. It was a constant reminder to her of how special Tara was, and exactly how lucky Willow was to still have her in her life.

Tara noticed her watching, and smiled at her. "Should I have put on the Frederik's of Hollywood instead?"

Willow laughed. "Like you need that to get me horny."

"Mm. Sometimes I wonder what it would take to kick up the revs for you." She snapped off the light and came to crawl into bed. "Feathers? Whipped cream?"

"We tried those, remember?"

Tara gave her a puzzled smile. "No, I don't."

"Oh. Must've been with someone else." Tara swatted her. "We did it online, that time you had to spend the weekend in the hospital for your checkup, remember? Dawn loaned you her laptop."

"R-i-g-h-t. Well, cybersex doesn't count. I guess I know what we're doing the first night both Dawn and Buffy are out of the house."

They kissed, and hugged, and kissed a little more. "So, what was in the mysterious envelopes?" Tara asked.

"Why don't you open yours and find out?"

Tara frowned. "I don't want to go all the way back downstairs for it."

"But you don't have to." Willow pointed. "There it is--on the nightstand."

Tara rolled over and looked. Sure enough, there was the buff envelope, looking almost ghostly in the moonlight. "Wills, did you bring that up for me?"

"No."

"I was sure that I left it down in the kitchen."

"Well, you must not have. Are you going to open it? I'm dying to see if it's the same as mine and Buffy's."

Tara stared at the envelope that was where it had no earthly reason to be. Then she mentally shrugged off the vague hint of unease. People were always forgetting where they'd laid something down. It wasn't so hard to believe that she could forget picking something up.

She reached for the envelope.

On the outskirts of London, England--Watcher's Headquarters--

Clarence Walstone, one of the members of the Head Council, stepped into a room that held a vague resemblance to the 'war rooms' that used to be standard in any WWII drama. The walls were covered with global maps, thickly studded with varicolored pins. There were banks of computers, a teletype machine, and a row of video monitors showing everything from empty rooms to bustling streets. Walstone went to stand behind a thin, intense looking young man who was typing rapidly on a keyboard. "Andrew, has there been any change in the Sunnydale situation?"

The young man glanced up at him, his expression tight. "I was just going to send word to you. The energy level has intensified, and the nature of the anomaly is becoming a little clearer. It seems to be some sort of interdimensional breech."

"Well, it is over the Hellmouth. Those things aren't all that unusual there, and the Slayer has been able to handle them so far."

"Perhaps, but there's something else. The type of energy collecting, the way it's building... Sir, it's as if there was a fault line running over Sunnydale. If it doesn't dissipate in the next few days, there could be..."

He waved his hands almost helplessly, and this worried Walstone. Andrew was their most brilliant researcher. If he was having a hard time finding the proper words to describe what was happening, it must be serious indeed. "Could be a what?"

Andrew blew out a breath. "I don't know. Some sort of a cosmic, multi-reality earthquake. It could screw with the very fabric of time." He frowned. "I keep thinking that I've read something about an incident like this--an obscure prophesy." He shook his head. "I'd need time and resources to be sure."

"Take it," said Walstone decisively. "Take all you need. Commandeer helpers, if it will be of any use. You have carte blanche."

Andrew nodded. "What about that," his lips curled in distaste, "person you were considering drafting?"

"He's here." Walstone went to a console and pressed a few buttons. The picture on one of the monitors changed. It showed a bare room--a room bare of all but one thing--a man. The floor and walls were thickly padded, and painted with a variety of symbols that would be unrecognizable to anyone except those who'd made a study of certain dark arts.

The man was sitting in the middle of the floor in a pose that would have suggested meditation, save for the strained disdain in his expression. He was studiously keeping any portion of his body from touching any of the signs.

"We picked him up an hour ago. He knew better than to answer the front door, and didn't go out the back door, but he didn't realize we'd located the bolt hole that led into the basement of the building next door." There was a dark smudge on one of the man's high cheekbones, and the Watcher's lips twitched. "He didn't have time to try anything preternatural before we got the ward on him, and then the silly bugger tried to get physical." He shook his head. "The boys did well. They didn't rough him up any more than they had to--gold stars for them. Well, I'd best go down and talk to him. No sense in waiting, especially if that situation is escalating."

*~~~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~~~*~~~~~~~~~~*

Ethan Rayne looked up. There had been no noise--no footstep or rattle of knob, but he knew someone was out there. He'd felt the ward go down.

The door opened and a middle aged man, slightly portly, entered the room and stood before him. Ethan stared up at him, making his gaze lazy and amused. "Tweeds. Tell me, do you issue a set of them to your recruits in some sort of bloody initiation ceremony? Hasn't anyone ever told you that not everyone can wear tweeds? Oh, some people look good in them. Ripper, for instance. Of course he looks better in leather." The smile became lascivious. "And even better in nothing at all. So, do you mind telling me why I've been kidnapped, or is this just one more unlooked for service that you've decided to provide an ungrateful and undeserving world?"

Walstone stared down at him. "I want you to help us. I want you to go to America and contact Rupert Giles, and look into a situation at the Hellmouth." Ethan was silent. Walstone sighed. "Giles won't speak to us. Neither will Pryce, the other ex-Watcher whose closest to the area. You've dealt with them both, and you have experience in this sort..." He paused. "Well, in incidents that are rather like the one we're facing. We need your help."

Dark eyes widened, well cut mouth dropped open. Then Ethan laughed softly. "Bloody hell! You've done something I didn't think was likely to happen again in my lifetime--you've surprised me." He shifted, getting comfortable. "So, tell me why I shouldn't be laughing my arse off right now?"

The Smokey Mountains--

Oz was sitting naked, cross-legged in the middle of the bed he shared with Giles. His elbows rested on his knees, and his chin was propped in his hands as he studied the two cards that were laid out before him, side by side.

Giles came out of the shower, a towel around his waist, tousling his hair with another towel. Not bothering to lift his head, Oz looked up at him. He looks younger without his glasses, Oz thought. Aloud, he said, "Rupert, how long have we been together?"

Giles stopped drying his hair, squinting over at his younger lover. "Good lord, please tell me I haven't forgotten an anniversary."

Oz's wide, mobile mouth quirked at the corners. "No. I was just wondering when you'd get comfortable enough with me to ditch the damn towel when you know you don't have to worry about flashing any visitors."

Giles smiled and untucked the towel, letting it fall to the floor. He walked over. letting himself feel how natural, how right this was--being naked under the warm gaze of the man he loved. He planted one knee on the mattress and leaned down. Oz lifted his head for the kiss, letting his fingers glide up into Giles' still damp hair.

It was good, but when they stopped for air, they both turned their eyes to the cards sitting on the bed. "What do you think?" Giles asked.

Oz made a grumbling sound, swept the cards up, and tossed them toward the dresser. He'd spent many hours during the winter months tossing playing cards into a hat, and his aim was excellent. They skidded close to the edge, but didn't fall off. "I think that I'm tired of thinking about it." He grabbed his older lover's shoulders and fell back on the bed, pulling Giles down on top of him. His legs came up to wrap around Giles' waist, and he said, "Wolf says to live in the now."

Giles kissed him deeply. "The wolf is an eminently practical animal."

They moved, sliding together in a rhythm that was familiar, but would never grow stale. When they were both aroused and leaking, Oz rolled them both over, then rose on his knees, straddling Giles.

Giles slid his hand under his pillow, and smiled as his fingers found the objects he'd been hoping were there. He pulled out a tube of Astroglide and a wrapped condom. "Daniel, you set things up while I was showering."

Oz gave him a grin that was more than a little feral. "I set it up when I made the bed this morning, lover." He held up his hand, two fingers pressed together the others folded to his palm. "Boy Scout for about three days, but I learned to be prepared." He extended his saluting hand to Giles.

Giles blinked for a moment. Oz rolled his eyes and nodded at the Astroglide. "Oh! Yes..." Giles opened the tube and squeezed a thick smear on Oz's extended fingers. Smiling, Oz braced his legs even wider, reached back, and began to prepare himself.

Giles watched in wondrous fascination as the ginger haired boy slowly massaged the pucker of his anus till the tight sphincter muscles relaxed, then slid a finger deep inside and began to pump. His pale body undulated, dark nipples emphatic points above the even more emphatic stiffness of his cock. Giles loved to prepare Oz, gently stretching the tight hole that would cling to him so intimately, but he loved this, too. Oz was so fucking primal in the power and beauty of his sex. Giles would find himself wondering what the hell such a fine young animal was doing with a middle-aged ex-librarian. Then Oz would look at him with that special green gaze that burned him to the core, and he wouldn't wonder anymore.

"Rupert," Daniel's voice was amused. "Come back, come back, wherever you are. Pay attention and get ready, lover. I'm up to two fingers, and going for three, and I don't want to stay empty more than about three seconds once I pull them out."

"Yes, sorry." Oz laughed softly as Giles tore open the condom and rolled it over his straining prick. The younger man's head dropped back, eyes half closing as he bit his lip, and Giles knew that it was almost time.

Then the phone rang.

They both stared at it. Then they stared at each other. Giles sighed. "We have to. It has to be something important. I put us on that telemarketers blocking list ages ago." Oz snarled. "Yes, I know, but we can't ignore it. Go on and answer, it's your turn." Oz shook his head. "Daniel."

Baring his teeth, Oz snatched up the receiver, said, "Hello," then dropped it on Giles' chest.

Giles stared at him. "Brat." Oz smirked. Giles swore, rather colorfully for such a conservative looking man, as he picked up the receiver. "I bloody well hope this is important."

There was a chuckle on the other end of the line. It was so dark and familiar that Giles felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Oz immediately felt the tension in the body lying between his knees and bent forward, alert and concerned. He heard the amused voice with the smooth, somehow familiar accent say, "Well, hello to you, too, Ripper."

Giles closed his eyes, rubbing his temple. "Hello, Ethan." Now Oz tensed, and Giles reached up with his free hand to give his lover's shoulder a reassuring rub. "I had a feeling that we'd be hearing from you sometime soon. What's on your mind?"

"What? No hello, it's been ages, how's the family?"

"You don't have any family. You would have sacrificed them to some sort of chaos demon or other long ago."

"Perhaps so. Still, you might show a bit of surprise and pleasure. After all, it you haven't exactly made it easy to find you."

"No, I haven't, which brings up a good point--how the fuck did you find us?"

"Us. Ah, yes, that would be the laconic one who answered. Found yourself a nice bed warmer, Ripper? Someone pretty, or rough? If I recall, you like both. The voice, as little as I heard, actually sounded a bit familiar."

"What do you want Ethan?"

"Let's see, who do I know who might have caught your fancy? Not either of the vampires--you're far to fond of warm bodies. Hmm... the one with the smart mouth? Harris, wasn't it? Can he do nice things with that mouth as well as talk saucy?"

"Ethan..."

"Not him. Who else? Oh, I know! It's the wolfboy, isn't it, Ripper? You kinky devil! I'm not surprised. After some of your escapades a bit of bestiality wouldn't be all that shocking..."

Giles didn't have to feel the tension in Daniel's body--he could feel it vibrating in the air. He looked up into sharp green eyes, and murmured, "Ethan, I really think you should..."