buffyprof

Look Who's Stalking Update!

Mon, 13 Mar 2006 23:20:25 GMT

Hi, to everyone who friended/wants to friend. Friend away. I'll friend you back when I get to it.

Here's the new chapter. It's getting long. I think I still have 2 to go. And that pesky career. But now I can answer your lovely comments in all their fabulousness.

I come from the Keats' Hyperion school of epic plotting. Hyperion is a famously failed and unfinished yet also apparently interminable epic in which the only action is that Saturn raises his head. Nonetheless, it is a great favorite of mine. And OOPS! I think I fixed the lj-cut now.

;

By the time Buffy woke up, the late afternoon sun was streaming through the window, bathing the brown stains on the walls in a mellow, golden light. “Kinda makes it worse, actually,” she muttered, rubbing her eyes and trying to get her bearings a little.

She felt really different having slept. Not that different was bad. It was just—unclear. Or, more clear. Huh. Hard to say. She stretched out in the bed and her foot brushed against the cool metal of . . . the lemon mousse container. That’s right. That’s for today. She began to sit up, but quickly fell back with a groan. Stupid head. Why push for the hangover without any of the drinking fun? She cast an eye on the clock. 4:30. She’d have a good few hours before sunset to get ready.

Oh! Dawnie. I need to email Dawnie or she’ll think I’m dead. And that would be sad for her, plus she’ll send out a search party and I don’t want to be found yet. So. Email. Check.

But first things first. Her bag was across the room, so she’d really need to address the immediate problem of getting out of bed. Go for the gold, Slayer. Done. Several inches off the pillow, anyway.

Seize the day, Summers. Boy. The world looks different with a little sleep. You’d think it would look better, but it’s lost that cool-shimmery-shininess.

Buffy shook her head and made a little gagging face at the sight of her lodgings. I’m not sure I’ll vacation here again next year.

She sighed and stretched her legs once more. They didn’t go quite as far as she’d been hoping. They should be more obedient. She pouted. Coffee would be good right now, but her legs would need to move her out of the door in order for that really good thing to happen. One toe lazily caressed the mousse container. “I wish—”

Buffy waited until the fumes and smoke had begun to clear before finishing her sentence, then spoke the words slowly and deliberately with a full-on sarcastic glare.

“. . . that there was a Starbucks in this neighborhood so I could get a decent cup of coffee. But no. I get a demon. Service here really sucks.”

“Done.” D’Hoffryn was completely impassive as he placed a steaming venti mocha latte on the bedside table next to a surprised but very pleased looking Buffy.

“Wow. Ok. I take it back. The service—definitely on the upswing. I’m even going to wait a minute before I ask you what the hell you’re doing here again. Because this?” she took a deep swig, “Is the best thing that’s happened to my mouth all week.” She paused. “Not that the blueberry soufflé wasn’t really deluxe and all.”

Buffy licked the foam off her lip and turned her eyes back to the demon. “So. What is this, anyway? Vengeance on Juan Valdez? What did the oppressed coffee workers of the world ever do to you—or, me? I mean, not like those coffee beans didn’t do kind of a number on my stomach the past few days, but no one held a gun to my head. I’m all free-will Buffy. So what gives?”

“You wished. You were touching my medallion—your wish must be done. It is true I was anticipating something slightly more . . . dramatic, myself. But it is not for me to question your motives at this time.”

“Right. Because that would be just so unlike you. And duh, I was not touching any stupid medal—” She felt the cool brush of metal against her toe again and paused, kicking the knotted bedclothes aside with her other foot. “Oh.” She pouted again. “I thought it was the lemon mousse. My bad!” She fluttered her eyelashes at D’Hoffryn in a pantomime of innocent apology. “But thanks for the coffee. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to develop a whole new olfactory palette, and time—”

“Miss Summers. Now that I’m here, however, I would wish to reopen the topic of our last conversation—and clarify somewhat my position.”

“Must be my lucky day,” muttered Buffy, “because the confusion was killing me.” She shifted on her bed and looked somewhat sullenly at D’Hoffryn but said nothing to stop him.

“I am pleased that you accept the extravagantly-priced coffee-product as a small token of appreciation for the freelance work you’ve been doing in the vengeance line.”

“I have not—“ spluttered Buffy, but D’Hoffryn held up a hand.

“But as I was saying, while we appreciate the overall originality and . . . spirit of your approach, it nonetheless—how shall I put this. You’ve been The Slayer. The Chosen One. You’ve fought and won against untold armies of vampires, hellgods, even the First Evil. Given that histoy, has it not occurred to you that your current undertaking and surroundings,” and he gestured around at the room strewn with hair care products, deoderizers, and empty takeout coffee cups, “seem a little—how would you put it—lame by comparison?”

Buffy bristled, then colored. She looked intently at the carpet. “Not as lame as you trying to use the word “lame,” she muttered.

D’Hoffryn chuckled, then continued. “I’m here because I don’t like to see greatness gone to waste. You were The Slayer—unique in all the world. Then, to fight a great battle, you sacrificed your position to empower others to be like you. You raised an army. You commanded an army. My Anyanka was sacrificed, and your vampire—yet you hardly batted an eye.”

Buffy glared. She had totally batted, many, many eyes, and what did he know? She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply.

“But now. Look at you. No longer unique. So far from it, in fact, that you sit here, alone, all but unhinged, driven to the point of distraction because your boyfriend didn’t call. Just as if you were any other girl.”

“He’s not my boyfriend!” If he was, he probably would have filled me in on the whole resurrection thing—sometime within six months or so, at least. Buffy’s eyes darkened, focusing inward, and in response to the silence, the demon kept speaking, sensing opportunity.

“But I can change that, Miss Summers. You can be unique again—wholly so. Since before recorded time, there has been the Slayer line. Since there have been humans, there has been the need for Vengeance. But never have the two been joined. I have seen your potential, just as you saw the potential of those formerly weak, helpless girls you raised from obscurity.”

Buffy was looking at him open mouthed. He was trying to convert her. Seemed like. Vengeance demon. Her. Flattering, almost, and yet, incredibly insulting. Like she hadn’t been ready to bisect one of her closest friends for being one. Hell, ready. She’d done it. He knew. He was there. That’s not it. Can’t be. But what’s his game?

“With you at my side, we would be invincible. Never has there been a Slayer-Vengeance Demon: you would be the first, the One—you will make of the blond vampire an example, before which all the world will tremble! Once again, you can defend those weak, helpless women from the men that ravage them and abandon them to fates—much like, with all due sympathy, yours here.”

“D’Hoffryn.” Buffy’s head was reeling, and she was sure she hadn’t quite had enough of the mocha to process all of the incredibly wrong things he was saying. “Don’t let yourself get dragged down by the neighborhood. You have really got to stay off that crack.” Buffy’s brow furrowed as she tried to piece together her thoughts.

“You are way more clueless than I ever thought. First of all, I’m still a slayer. One of the good guys. I’d kill your kind as soon as breathe, if I could just get at you.” She took a deep breath. Probably this would be more impressive if she weren’t in bed, but she wasn’t sure how threatening her smiley-heart print boxers would look in this situation.

“Ok. I’m mad. Check. I’ve got some personal . . . demons. Check. But I’m on vacation—which I can take now, because we made more of me. . . .us . . . them. Whatever. And so if I choose to spend my first vacation in however many years in a squalid rent-by-the-hour motel . . . observing my personal demon, what’s it to you? I’m not on company time. And if I was, it wouldn’t be yours.”

Buffy got out of bed, throwing caution about her non-threatening undergarments to the wind. She was just getting warmed up, and she still had at least half the venti left. D’Hoffryn folded his arms and seemed to settle back in anticipation of a good show. Well. He’ll get one.

“Second, I don’t want vengeance on Spike.” Her eyes were flashing. “Ok. Yes. I want to get back at him. Teach him a lesson. But I won’t need a demon sacrifice to take it back—just an open window and a soapy sponge. I’m . . . communicating. And yeah, he really should have called me. But over all? Neither of us winning any prizes for good behavior. Or consistency. I—whatever, it’s complicated. But it’s also between me. And him. Not Vampire and Slayer. Spike and Buffy. Boy and girl. Like you say.”

D’Hoffryn’s lip twitched and he raised a hand as if to cough.

“Ok, with a slight side of epic battle and mythic mortal enemy thrown in, and a history of brutal violence and sex marathons, often at the same time, but does that really make us so different from anybody else?”

The cough came and, to Buffy’s ear, sounded suspiciously like a chortle.

“Oh, stop with the smug already, or I’ll sic the fresh scents on you too. One more thing.” Buffy fixed a coldly furious gaze at D’Hoffryn’s still twitching lips. “You say ‘girl’ like it’s some kind of disease. And I’m not even gonna start with the ‘it’s woman to you because I’m of age and all’ because my generation doesn’t really stress the vocab as much, just like we wear nail polish and shave our pits and wear heels and stuff.”

Focus, Buffy. We can save the feminism and fashion lecture for another time. She took a deep breath.

“But that does not mean I’m going to stand there and let you insult my whole gender and make it sound like we spend all our time sitting around hoping phones will ring while we wait to get rescued! I mean, who the hell do you think you are? Aren’t you the guy with the all powerful stable of vengeancy women? In your own twisted and incredibly evil way, aren’t you on our side?”

“Ah.” D’Hoffryn began pacing. “Actually, no. I am on the side of Vengeance, and Vengeance alone. It only so happens that women tend to need it more than men—or perhaps, merely have fewer resources of their own to achieve it as wholly as they might desire.”

“Fewer resources?” Buffy squeaked incredulously, “we have, like, seven aisles in Walgreens. You guys have all of one. That is, men. Not demons. Having one aisle.”

“True enough,” the demon smirked. “I was forgetting the natural advantage you hold in beauty products.”

“Well think again! If you had any insight at all, you might have noticed that I’m not exactly here as a Slayer. I haven’t used any Slayer powers—no fighting, no beating, no staking. Even the equipment comes from my ex-commando, who still feels guilty for running out on me to find a happy marriage. So. All just girl stuff. And if I’m not wrong, my century-old, slayer-killing, soul-having, world-saving, can’t-keep-him-down surprisealiveagain!vampire is feeling pretty uncomfortable right about now. So just put that in your ‘girls are pathetic weaklings’ pipe and smoke it!”

Hmm. Not sure about that last image.

“Ah. Of course, The—a slayer is a champion of what you call ‘girl power.’ I was mistaken. The times you were robbed of your Slayer strength—during the Council test, for example, when your Watcher weakened you—that was a joyous time of—great empowerment for you?”

Buffy breathed in sharply, pained even at the memory of what it had felt like, trapped in a blind alley, screaming pointlessly for help, screaming like a—

D’Hoffryn continued. “Then there was a certain time, if my information is correct, in your own bathroom, after you had been injured in a fight—”

The demon’s sentence was cut off by an airborne lemon mousse that narrowly missed his head. It was followed by a medallion, which he caught. Buffy had picked up another canister as if to throw it, too, but she paused, then spoke slowly and deliberately, gesturing with increasing energy with the blue-lidded aerosol can.

“D’Hoffryn, if women need more vengeance, it’s not because they’re weak. It’s because men, in which category I include just this once male demons, are so FULL OF THEMSELVES!! Because they think they KNOW ALL THE ANSWERS when they haven’t got a CLUE!!”

She shook her head, then fake-smiled brightly. “Not that I mean, you know, you.” She held up the canister and sprayed directly at her visitor. “Oops. That’s gotta sting.”

“Indeed. Mountain freshness and hospital wards. How could I have imagined you needed any supernatural assistance with such weapons at your disposal?” D’Hoffryn wiped his eyes. He had exchanged smug amusement for some sharper demonic wrath, though its expression was constrained. His voice was steel, but his words were still marked with an almost unctuous formality.

“With the vampire across the street sampling the highlife, as he has been, and his integrity so compromised by an overabundance of self-confidence, it was only natural that you would feel the need to . . . bring him down a few pegs. For his own good, of course. A lesson, as you say.”

D’Hoffryn gathered his cloak about him as Buffy seemed poised to spray again, but then he paused and turned to face her once more. “It had seemed to me of late that commitment to the pedagogy of ritualized humiliation had rather fallen off—but I myself have long been a practicing adherent of this methodology. It is always a pleasure to find others who share my faith. Good day, Ms Summers. I’ll be pleased if you reconsider our offer of a more . . . stable arrangement with Vengeance. ”

The lingering Lysol did its best to combat the noxious fumes generated by D’Hoffryn’s exit, but with only limited success. “Stable, my ass,” grumbled Buffy.

Well, actually, it was pretty firm. But off topic, really.

Buffy shook her head. She was having some trouble focusing. She couldn’t remember what pedagogy meant, she had a vague memory of something having to do with her job at the highschool, but she had a feeling D'Hoffryn hadn’t said anything very nice about her with it.

She sighed and slumped down on the bed. Despite what she considered to be some effective come-backs on her part, her conversation with D’Hoffryn had left her a little disheartened. Confused. She knew she’d been right in most of what she said, but she had a horrible feeling that he might have been right about some things as well, somewhere in there. The worst thing was, she had no idea which part, and as she considered each one in turn, each seemed worse than the last.

Dawnie. Shit.

Buffy grabbed her bag and fumbled for Riley’s untraceable Blackberry device. She whipped off an email to her sister.

“Hi, Dawnie, hope everything’s ok. As for me, I’ve been hanging out mostly on my own, doing a little shopping, but I have had a few chances to be social. One guy seems to be showing a lot of interest, but of course—the wrong one. He never shuts up and has a real problem with B.O., actually. He might even want to hire me for his company, but I don’t think I’d like kind of work they do. Then I’ve been kind of checking out this other guy, a total hottie, but I don’t even think he knows I’m alive.” Or vice versa. “But maybe I’ll figure out a way to show him.” Pretty sure I will. “Basically, I’m just spending a lot of extra time primping and enjoying being a girl.” Take that, D’Hoffryn! “Hope you don’t mind my not saying where I am—I’m just having more fun being irresponsible! It’s giddy. But let me know right away if anything is wrong or you need anything, because the irresponsibility thing only works for me if, you know, I’m all responsible about it. Yours in logic, Buffy. PS. I love you!”

There. And almost 100% of it true. It’s a kind of art form.

Buffy glanced at her watch. 5:30. Lordy. Time flies when a demon’s trying to get you to join his evil minions and wreak havoc on the guilty.

Now why didn’t that become the catch-phrase?

Let’s see—wash that D’Hoffryn right outta my hair. That’s probably a double shampoo and a cream rinse, at least. And develop a whole new scent ensemble for this evening.

She drained the last of her cool coffee and leaped into the bathroom. Work to be done.

* * * * *

When Spike woke up, the first thing he saw was the writing on the wall. “Right. Watching me. Quite the show you’re getting, then, aren’t you? Hot, hot, hot. Play your cards right, you can see me warm my pig’s blood.” The late afternoon light was filtering through the edges of his curtains, but not strong enough to cause any problems.

With a heavy sigh, Spike swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood slowly. His head was pounding. Hunger. He made his way to the two burners and sink that made up his kitchen, pulled out a pan, and took a plastic bag out of the fridge.

He looked toward the window—or maybe there was a tiny hidden camera somewhere. “Yeah, nestled right in with the sumptuous furnishings and wall-hangings,” he muttered. “Well, wherever you are, this one goes out to you—for all those little things you do.”

Spike took a deep bow, and began to sway his hips to an imaginary beat.

“Let me entertain you—“ One hand on hips, one pointing flirtatiously to the window, Spike sang. “Let me make you smile, I’ll show you some tricks—“ He twirled the bag in his hand like a piece of discarded clothing. “ Some old and then some new tricks—” He ripped the bag of blood open with his teeth and blew the bits of plastic from his mouth in seductive moue. “I’m very versatile,” and with a flourish, he emptied the contents of the bag into the pan heating on the stove.

“All right, move along folks, nothin’ more to see.” He gave the blood a little stir. “But if you’re real good . . .” Spike twirled the spoon in is fingers and flipped it in the air, watching with satisfaction as it splattered a tiny pattern on the wall above the stove. More bloody like it.

“. . . I’ll open a beer and have a drink of it.” He poured the blood into a mug and went over to his desk. "And we'll have a real good time"

"Least I can do if you're goin’ go to all this to all this trouble."

He rifled through the papers on his desk, looking for a sheet of numbers. Should check in with Angel and Hart, I suppose. He grabbed one, fingered it, pushed it away.

“Hell with it. If they want me to suit up for an apocalypse, they can bloody well page me. Til then, I’ll leave the boss to play corporate Machiavelli, Blue to her bug-eyed stares. Least for tonight.”

Beer. Spike looked thoughtfully toward yesterday’s jeans hung over the back of the chair. He reached around and started going through the pockets.

“Why bloody not? Could do with a spot of company.”

* * * * *

Buffy stepped out of the bathroom, black-suited and smelling seven kinds of different. Beer shampoo. Musky overtones. A dash of Compare to Obsession because she just couldn't resist. She eyed the lemon mousse splattered over the wall where the canister had exploded after missing D’Hoffryn’s head. She shrugged. It can keep the semen company. Moving toward the window, she grabbed her bag and rifled through it to find some saltine crackers to nibble at. Food might be in order at some point, but now she needed to watch.

It looked quiet across the street. The evening sun was still just smudging the sky, but the lights were on inside. Still in, she decided. Not too late.

Just then, the lights went out. Buffy tensed, poised and at the ready. Sure enough, the door opened and the vampire climbed the few steps to the street. To Buffy’s horror, he turned and looked directly at her window.

She didn’t move. She had only been watching through the cracks. She hadn’t touched the shade.

He started off across the street. Coming directly for her. He’d seen her. It was over.

The lamplight played off of his cheekbones, accentuating the lights and shadows in his face. He looked intent. And beautiful.

Buffy remained frozen in place. Cringing inside. It wasn’t how she’d planned. She couldn’t see him. Not yet. Not this way. Not on his terms. If he’d wanted to decide the terms of their meeting, he should have come to her. To Rome, or at least to the phone. Not across the stupid street to the stupid hooker hotel. Stupid Buffy.

He was already across the street.

Wait. Stupid Buffy. He was still a vampire. It was still her room, and she was sure she’d never invited him in. She ran to the door and double bolted all the locks. Her breath came hard. She was sweating.

She heard his footsteps in the hall. She would know them anywhere.

Buffy backed away from the door. Could he hear her heartbeat through walls? Would it still sound like hers even after the venti mocha latte? She ran to her bag and pulled out a fistful of espresso beans and stuffed them into her mouth. Eew. She gagged. She spat some back into her hand. Wiped it on the bedspread. Stood stock still, heart pounding, caught between window and door and trying to occupy the least visible and audible place the tiny room could offer.

The footsteps stopped in front of her door.

Fuckfuckfuck. Buffy held her breath.

The knock came. “It’s me. You ready for me?”

He had got to be kidding.

Another knock. “Oi, it’s me. Open up. I know I’m a bit early, but turns out I was just across the street the whole time!” He paused, listening. “I’ll make it worth your while. Got some whiskey.”

He sounded wheedling, teasing. Light.

In other words, evil incarnate. He was mocking her. She’d rethink the whole vengeance thing. Maybe D’Hoffryn had a point.

Because she was sure, at this moment, as sure as she’d ever been of anything.

That he had never loved her.

Or at least, that he had the worst sense of humor in the history of vampire kind.

And for either, punishment was probably in order.

Look Who's Stalking Update!

Tue, 07 Mar 2006 23:38:07 GMT

Look Who's Stalking Fans! New Friends! Old Friends!

Thanks so much for your patience as I got an update on another little matter . . . I got to hear the friggin heartbeat!!! *buffyprof does the mommy dance of joy* Still below the magic 12 week mark, but lookin' good. Go Spawn!! (And no, not *that* kind of Spawn. My fic is Spuffy all the way).

If you haven't been following the fic, get on over to Seasonal Spuffy and read the first 5 chapters there, so that you too can know why Buffy does not smell like vanilla. Not One Bit. I'll be happy to cross post them here, or post a link or something, but that'll have to wait a bit.

To the rest of you, thanks for your support and all the really great comments. I will get to the replies, honest, I've just been busy writing. There will be one long chap. or 2 short ones after this, depending on my napping schedule. And Buffy's. She's napping in this chap. She really needed it.

Fic is so far rated R, I'd say.

When Spike got back to his apartment, he avoided breathing. He figured the smell must have dissipated, but there was no need to take chances. He paused a minute at the door before going in and turning on the light. Gathering strength.

It was a good thing. Everything was as he’d left it. Except.

On the wall above the bed. Scrawled in dripping blood.

“EVERY BREATH YOU TAKE.”

Spike stared. Now that was more sinister.

Maybe it was Dru, after all. It was like one of her little love-notes.

“Irony. Breath. Blood. Vampire. Got it. And you’ll be watching me. Very nice. I’ll die laughing.”

But, preferably not literally. Better check things out.

He turned off the light again and went to the window. It was high on the wall. He needed to stand on a chair to see out, and then it wasn’t much of a view. Spike couldn’t see any feet that looked suspicious.

Spike did a quick case of the room, then slumped back onto the bed and turned on the little reading light. He pointed it at the wall and gazed at the lettering. Well. At least someone cared. In blood. His gaze wandered to the air vent. “I mean, ‘sides you, of course, pet.”

Blood. But that was a good point. He’d better have a sniff and see if it was anyone he recognized. He stood on the bed, put his nose right up to the stains, and inhaled.

Strawberry.

Sort of.

Fuck me. Can’t be.

Spike strode angrily to the sink, grabbed a towel and wet it. He went back over to the wall and rubbed on the lettering. It came off easily.

Paint. Washable paint. Washable BLOODY SCENTED children’s paint. Except not bloody at all.

It really was too much. Here he’d been thinking that someone had cared, but they were only mocking him, after all.

Even Fantazia had wanted to pity-fuck him. Until she thought he was gay.

She hadn’t even smelled the flat.

Spike lay face down on the bed, motionless. Completely motionless, avoiding all breath. At least Buffy couldn’t see him now. Deserve her. Right. I bet the Immortal has never been near strawberry-scented children’s paint. “I wish,” he muttered, “just once . . .”

Suddenly, an explosion near the foot of his bed made Spike start. He breathed inward sharply before he could remember not to. A noxious odor filled his nostrils. He whipped around, immediately on his guard, only to be faced with a very tall demon in long robes emerging from a cloud of smoke.

“D’Hoffryn?! Mind telling a bloke what the bloody hell you’re doing in my flat? Emphasis on bloke?”

“Spike.” The vengeance demon rubbed his hands together and smiled his most engaging and ingratiating smile. “You don’t mean to tell me that you’re still living by those outmoded nineteenth-century essentialist notions of gender, do you? You’re two centuries behind now. You might at least catch up with your hairstyle.”

“Look. Got no clue what you’re on about. All I know is, I’ve got parts that clearly say, I’m no woman, and you’ve got no business with me. If someone wanted vengeance on me, you’d send one of your minions. Whoever you got to replace poor Anya. Whatever. So piss off. If you don’t mind.”

“Spike. Be reasonable. As you’ve gathered, I’m not here to wreak vengeance on you. Someone else has clearly got that order of business well in hand.” D’Hoffryn inhaled deeply and made a sympathetic gesture toward the wall. “No. I’m here to recruit you.”

“D’Hoffryn. You’re off your head. I'm disqualified. I’ve got a pair. Big ones. I don’t want to have to show you.” Spike started unbuckling his belt. “But I will if I have to.”

“Now, Spike. That won’t be at all necessary. I won’t deny that in a strict interpretation of our former policy, the presence of those no doubt formidable gonads would, compounded by your vampiric heritage, have been enough to disqualify you from the service. But this is the twenty-first century. Not only are our expanding American operations putting increased pressure on us to comply with Equal Opportunity legislation, including demonstrating progress regarding gender equity and minorities such as undead Americans, but advances in gender theory call out for a redefinition of the gendered categories that define our recruitment procedures.”

“Right. And in English that means?”

“It’s very simple,” D’Hoffryn paused, turning his palms upward. “In your relationship with Buffy, she had all the power. In this way, she assumed the position of the traditional male of the species.”

The demon continued. “As a result, Buffy could hit you whenever she wanted, and for a long time, you were powerless to stop her. She abused, you took the abuse, misinterpreting it as a sign of love because of your past abusive relationships with your vampiric family. She used you for sex, you let her, hoping it would turn to love. She wanted to fornicate and leave as soon as possible with no questions asked and no commitment. You yearned for tenderness and felt a need to talk things out.”

He paused. Spike looked down, intensely uncomfortable. “I let her use me for sex because it was bloody brilliant,” he muttered. “Any bloke’d do the same.”

“Spike. We recognize that you have all the requisite male parts, and the combined wisdom of the past century suggests that you know how to use them with more than usual . . . stamina and creativity. Your sexual prowess is not at issue for us. It is simply that vis-à-vis Buffy, for the intents and purposes of vengeance demon recruitment, you were the woman in that relationship, and Buffy was the man. It’s not just about sex. It’s about power.”

Spike sighed bitterly. It was as if all the fight went out of him. “It’s not like I haven’t thought some of same things, mate. Really. But it wasn’t all one-sided like that. It cut both ways. I was down. I tried to pull her down with me. And I tried to rape her. That’s mostly a male thing, you gotta admit. Not proud of it, believe me.” He stared at his hands.

“But Spike. While it’s true that that little transgression might well have put your name in the queue for the receiving-end of vengeance, thankfully, the rest of your relationship and your own actions in the wake of your violent act more than took care of that order of business. No one, I think, could have dreamed of a more perfect vengeance on you than the return of your soul. Not even my dearly departed Anyanka.”

Spike was silent for a moment. “Did she ever do any work with scented paint?”

D’Hoffryn tried to hide a smirk. “I don’t believe so.”

“I mean,” Spike looked up at the wall, “Talk about inspired. Invokes the King of Pain himself, and then, the fake strawberries. You almost have to admire just the barefaced cheek of it.”

“Indeed. There are a number of . . . independent contractors doing interesting work in vengeance these days. But I could include you in that category. Won’t you consider joining our team? You’re already doing some very fine work for us. Why not make it official?”

“Have you gone daft?” Spike looked even more incredulous, if anything, than at the suggestion of his female identity. “I’m not working for vengeance. I’m working for a bloody law firm. We bill by the hour. Puffy-haired bloke in charge. Now. Some of the clients—I can’t answer for their motives.”

“Wolfram and Hart is in a different category. We are not in competition. I was referring more to your—freelance activities. Tonight, for instance.”

“Tonight? Chugging swill with a whore in an alley? Alright. I had a different idea of your methods. I’m in. Load me up with malt liquor and point me toward the ladies of the evening.”

“Spike. Your rapier wit—have mercy. I was referring to your saving the woman from her would-be attackers. Have you failed to notice that most of those you help in this way are wronged women?"

D'Hoffryn shook his head sadly. "I confess I have no replacement for Anyanka. She is, admittedly, a hard act to follow. But a vampire with a soul who has occupied the structural position of a wronged woman and drained the blood of the innocent across two continents for a century would be—a unique and powerful addition to our vengeance arsenal.”

“Look, mate. Hookers in alleyways—that’s not vengeance. That’s just statistics. Who gets attacked in dark alleys more, d’you think? Big burly men with weapons, or strung-out chicks in stilettos? And as for the other point—every bloody woman is a wronged woman, in’t she?” Spike sighed. “Unlike yours truly. Who is not a BLOODY WRONGED WOMAN.”

D’Hoffryn moved in closer, sensing his moment. “Leaving that matter aside for a moment, I assure you it wasn’t only that particular work I was referring to. As you point out, such methods are . . . crude at best. Your choice in avenging yourself on your abuser, however, was what attracted our attention.”

“What are you on about now? Buffy is not my abuser. I tried to kill her for years. And her friends. I stalked her. I tried to separate her from her friends. I tried to break her up with her human boyfriend and I won that round. I tried to convince her she was a creature of the dark. I tried to rape her. Then to top it all off, I moped for months in her bloody basement. Vengeance?!? I took whatever I needed on credit, didn’t I? I don’t want any vengeance on her. I bleedin’ well died for her, and now, I’m not going to fuck it up by going anywhere near her!”

“Interesting logic. But if you will take a moment to reflect, I believe you’ll acknowledge that the potential for psychological torture resulting from your methods is exquisite indeed. Let her live with the knowledge that you died at least in part so that she could prosper—but deny her long-awaited words of love at the last possible moment. Let her watch you go to your grave, knowing that her words came too late, and fell on deaf ears. Eternally deaf ears.”

D’Hoffryn smiled and looked unflinchingly into Spike’s eyes. “I’m not sure even I could have surpassed that.”

Spike threw his hands the air in exasperation and stood abruptly to avoid D’Hoffryn’s stare. “I don’t know what wanker gives you your information, but you’ve got it all wrong. 100 %. Completely wrong.”

The vampire began pacing up and down the room as if caged, hand running repeatedly through his hair.

“I wanted her to live. I didn’t want her pity. I didn’t want her to feel she had to love me just when I was goin’ out, or that she somehow had to be—faithful, or . . . beholden. I—”

Spike stopped, his voice torn between triumph and despair. “And that worked, now, didn’t it, mate? She didn’t bloody well feel she had to be anything of the kind, she’s with the Immortal now and doing all kinds of very well. So you and your theories can just sod off!”

D’Hoffryn continued thoughtfully, as if Spike had never spoken at all. “I don’t think I could have surpassed it. But you—you found a way. Now. I can’t give you credit for your own resurrection—but the use you made of it was sheer genius. To withhold the information of your return from woman whose gift of love you rejected as you went to your death—all the while continuing to work side by side with her own ex-lover . . . with whom we know she continues to have—issues—”

“I never rejected so much as Buffy’s lint when she offered it freely, and what she doesn’t know can’t bloody well hurt her, can it?” Spike snarled.

“Well, of course that might be a flaw in an otherwise incomparable plan—were it not that the information was shared by—what was his name? The socially awkward young man with an impressive knowledge of demon languages?”

“Andrew’s not gonna—”

“Yes, Andrew. As I was saying. The socially and sexually awkward young man who can’t stop talking for thirty seconds together and who has long nursed a fannish obsession with—”

“You can stop right there, mate. Andrew didn’t say a word. And if he did, Buffy’s over it, isn’t she? I mean,” Spike looked around pointedly, “I don’t see any heartbroken slayers lurking around, do I?”

D’Hoffryn inclined his head as if in defeat. “I must admit that you don’t.”

“Right then.” Spike gestured toward the door. “Don’t let me keep you, in that case. If you have any more offers or interesting theories about my personal unlife, feel free to BUGGER OFF!”

But a puff of smoke enveloped the room and the vengeance demon was gone before Spike had finished speaking.

At least the fumes drowned out the fake strawberry smell.

Spike let himself drop back on the bed and raked his hands over his face. It had not been a good day.

His flat still smelled of fruit salad, now mixed with fake strawberries and the lingering scent of cheap perfume—some must have clung to his clothes from sitting with Fantazia.

He still didn’t know who was behind the olfactory fun and games, but apparently they had free access to his flat and an endless supply of fruit scents. Then, on the other end of the olfactory spectrum, he had a dangerously jealous slime demon potentially suspicious of his relationship with a woman he’d never even seen.

And, to top it all off, he did not like the idea that anyone, even a demon so obviously completely clueless as D’Boffryn, could misunderstand his treatment of Buffy as being motivated by vengeance.

When it was the opposite. Spike was glad she’d accepted his sacrifice on his terms. He hoped she was really and truly moving on to a full life with his former rival. He really hoped that.

Mostly.

Except when he missed her so much that it felt like his entire body was screaming.

But that was only every other second or so.

Wed, 01 Mar 2006 04:51:54 GMT

Happy Birthday Mr Monkeybottoms!

From the very depths of my morning sickness, I salute you! fabulous creator of Spike Bot! artiste of many an adorable icon( like this one)! author of many a fascinating anecdote about Canadian Tire! You,yes, you!!!

and now, I return to my regularly scheduled malaise. . .

Marsathon (w/ a side of Lou)

Tue, 21 Feb 2006 14:53:18 GMT

Well. All I can say is, I am so sick that it was all I could do to lie on the couch and watch 22 eps of Veronica Mars over the course of a 3 day period. I can see why Victorian women took to their beds because it was *so much better* than working, and I hired someone to clean my house!! Maybe I could faint or something. (although some evil mother told me that women never really faint, and villains always blink their eyes, and children are the only ones who blush, and life is just to die. . .) wait, no! It's for watching a season's worth of TV in 3 days! I could have done it faster if it weren't for all the napping I had to accomplish.

VM rocks, too bad the next season dvd won't be out until next year. I may even have to hook up my TV for the first time since Angel ended. . . (well, I have been watching Bleak House, but at my Mom's). I guess I can be glad for a month of reruns to get caught up. Because some people like to go out dancing, and other people like us, we gotta work (or, in my case, languish watching TV). But *oops* I have important professional deadlines and *gasp* a posting date for Seasonal Spuffy. It may well be my one and only fic, but look out March 6, here comes the Buffy-must-not-smell-like-vanilla-self-imposed-challenge fic (stuff of legend, folks). And now, before I swoon, I will comment. So look out.

Birthday Wishes!!

Fri, 10 Feb 2006 00:10:55 GMT

Happy Birthday alwaysjbj

I think it is (still) your birthday over yonder, though it is not yet here. . .festive "icon" (um, resized and stolen from random internet pic) in honor of you and of my several months spent wondering. . ."she seems cool. Wonder what jbj stands for. . ." I should know better, of course, since I had girlfriends (and guyfriends, for that matter) with *shrines* to him back in the day, but, um, I didn't know better. I hope this is him. I mostly remember the hair, because those same girl and guy friends always cut it to match. And it's not there. But lordy, my hair's changed since the 80s too (thank God for small favors!!)

I am mostly too tired lately to do much except essentials, but I didn't want to miss out on your day!

Anyway. He looks easy to unwrap.

(belated) plagiarism response

Sun, 22 Jan 2006 00:32:40 GMT

Well. I turned around for a minute and then *whoosh* classes started and *whoosh* you all went through a lot! First of all, I would just like to say a collective "Soo sorry that happened to you" to all who got plagiarized. I also would like to say how much I admire the community for how it responded collectively and supportively (at least from what I saw).

Plagiarism is always a tough issue, and of course professionally I deal with it from time to time (note to students: if you're going to plagiarize, don't plagiarize from the *Norton Anthology!!*). In general, however, I am a very big supporter of "fair use"--the creative use of others' work for educational or purposes that don't infringe on profits, and I think fair use is under attack these days. It is one of the reasons that I have been so pleased with Joss' and the other writers' support of fanfic. Fanfic trades on fair use in spirit (although it is technically illegal, I think)--which makes this kind of "unfair use" even worse. Credited borrowing is the name of the game, but straight theft violates the unwritten rules that make the whole thing possible.

Also, since fic writers have no profit motive and no kind of credit or currency other than reader enjoyment, reputation, and the odd review, it makes plagiarizing all the worse, somehow. It seems worse to steal something given freely than something sold with an eye to profit.

I love that this is a "gift economy"--writers rec each other, critique each other, gift each other with drabbles and fics and feel free to make requests. Since I also inhabit other *really, really different!!* writerly economies, I appreciate so much the kind of support I see people offer total strangers here, the many gifts of time, consideration and praise. I was sorry to see someone violate that.

Brokeback

Sun, 15 Jan 2006 16:25:28 GMT

Ok. So. I went with the girls (a collection of colleagues and colleagues' wives) to see Brokeback Mountain because none of our husbands/partners would go, even my own gay-acting straight guy. I tried with him. I said, c'mon, come see how the other half lives. Straight-acting gay guys're all the rage. Gay cowboys. Hot! Sentimental romance drivel, he replied, but I'll babysit. Done! But then I demurred. Maybe I should just go to the film and not have a drink with the colleagues and colleagues' wives because I have to prep my class. What kind of nonsense is that? asked my G-ASG. And he had a good point. Collective verdict? Great performances all around. Not enough gay sex for us straight girls. Sheep=excellent. Too long but nonetheless moving. Funny to name gay cowboy "Ennis," that Annie Proulx is wicked.

Going in, I would like to say that I was a *big* fan of the original story and collection, and so one of my concerns about the movie was that it was going to be lush and sweeping and squishy in terms of structure and texture as opposed to taught and craggy like Annie Proulx' story and the cowboys themselves. This fear was somewhat justified because that film was *too long* (especially if you're only going to have one sex scene, come on). Many of my favorite scenes, though, were toward the beginning of the movie when there were these sweeping shots of, well, sheep. I really, really loved sheepcam. Whoulda thunk? I also really like the not talking and I think the trailers were a little misleading because they kind of crammed *all* the dialogue in the movie into 2 minutes. It's not a chatty film.

In any case, the NY Times agreed with me that the film was too long but thought the cuts should have come in the beginning with *gasp* the sheep!! No! They said that in a movie where everyone knows two cowboys are going to get together, you don't need to waste all that time on build-up. Um. No. Statistics showing the number of times the average woman reads/watches Pride and Prejudice clearly demonstrates that certainty of outcome is no stumbling-block at all to the pleasures of UST. So. Stupid NYT critic, threaten not my sheep! I could do many complex and even unflattering readings of the iconography of those sheep but I won't cause I just liked'em. (file in "I don't know much about sheep but I know what I like" drawer).

IMHO, the place to cut the movie was *towards* the end (I think the end was brilliant but I won't discuss). But scene after scene after scene demonstrating that *surprise* the heterosexual lives of the *gay cowboys* are somehow less than fulfilling was a little much. Some of these scenes were great but ENOUGH not every movie needs to be over 2 hours, people. In all, though, I was glad to see the treatment of gays in mainstream cinema progressing from "those flawless people who express affection by shaking hands and hugging as they die of AIDS but who knows how they got it" to "I'm not queer. I just like f*cking you, friend" This was a lot more moving, and I got a little teary at the end and even had sad gay cowboy dreams. Sigh.

Happy Birthday

Fri, 06 Jan 2006 01:55:57 GMT

Happy Birthday to the very excellent writer annapurna_2 !!

It's my dog's birthday too! he turned one. I gave him a greenie and a cardboard box to destroy. He is not a good writer but is really excellent at chewing stuff and flinging drool.

First Drabble

Sun, 01 Jan 2006 22:13:50 GMT

for speakr2customrs

Travel Plans

(Post NFA)

Buffy (musingly): I’m going to LA to pick up Spike. But after that, I want to try something different. Maybe Spain.

Andrew: Spayne? Gross! Anyway, I think you mean Spethan.

Buffy (ignoring Andrew’s incomprehensible remark): Or maybe we should drop Dawnie off at Northwestern, I mean, I’ve never seen Illinois, either.

Andrew: Illinois? Buffy! You all could get arrested! And even with a former god, it’s immoral—and impossible—didn’t Spike dust the Annoying One, like, years ago?

Buffy: Andrew! Why don’t you just not speak or something.

Andrew: Oh sure, rub it in! Like I don’t know Spike would never have anything to do with a geek like me.

Happy New Year

Sat, 31 Dec 2005 22:16:40 GMT

Hey Happy New Year to my little flist. As part of a resolution to read more non-spuffy fic (well, I'll read anything funny) I bring you the following Very Spangel New Years I found-- in case any of you missed it when it went up last year. Don't click if you don't like Doll Porn Slash (but really, why wouldn't you?).

http://www.boosterevents.com/Default.aspx?tabid=89&g=posts&t=189

I did a google image search.

Yay!

Fri, 30 Dec 2005 06:35:10 GMT

Yes, I did survive my grading, which was touch and go there for a while, and I had to stop doing everything else except shopping, cleaning, and hosting a very large Christmas Eve dinner which I also survived. Then I survived my sweetheart's parents and brother, my parents and brother and his wife and kids for Christmas, which was actually really fun, and I did all this surviving without ever having seen Survivor. And someone gave me Veronica Mars on DVD so I can be cool now too! Plus I got a triple CD set of Aerosmith which has given me more joy than I ever, ever, imagined, considering I never got into Aerosmith and then, suddenly this year, I noticed I became strangely happy whenever Sweet Emotion came on. It is part of my project: I am regressing and by the time I'm 40 I hope to be twelve.

I went skiing! I went down really, really big mountains! I went snow-shoeing! So did my mom! I hope everyone else's holidays are still in the process of being festive. I myself am rejoicing because my house, though completely trashed, is now empty. Even Babyspikelover has gone to visit her dad.

Speaking of which

Babyspikelover's Buffy enthusiasm has helped her find some new friends at school--the Jossverse is always creating alternative communities--and I'm very happy that this new grouping includes one of the Hispanic girls who was new to the class and the school and had been having some trouble really integrating. No longer. Apparently at recess the girls go around saying "You can't do that. It's wrong!" and "Yes, I would be Buffy." and "I'm gonna kick your ass!" Yes, Babyspikelover has been expanding her knowledge of canon (although none of these girls, it turns out, are allowed to watch S6) and who is the first character to really capture her heart, after Spike? That's right, Faith. They all love Faith--girls love a positive role model. Well, specifically, they love Faith pretending to be Buffy. Well, they love SMG pretending to be Faith pretending to be Buffy. Because that is what 9 year old girls do all day long. They have these different voices and personae. And they trade them.

On a different, gentler note, however, Babyspikelover received two black horsies from Santa. One is big, and the other little one came in her stocking, like a mommy and baby. But she told me shyly before going to bed that one was Tara and the other was Willow. I found this particularly sweet because it's another step in figuring out the same-sex relationship there. First she said they were sisters, then friends who were like sisters. I figured, not really ready to go there yet, but at some point later I explained that they were actually girlfriend and girlfriend, like some people were girlfriend and boyfriend, but she said no they weren't. But now (much later) she kind of gets it and the Buffy recess posse apparently have chatted about it . . .Too bad Tara gets offed. Sigh.

Poor New Yorkers

Wed, 21 Dec 2005 01:17:09 GMT

*looks up from grading/santaing festival and self-imposed LJ ban to say* All my sympathy goes out to New Yorkers!! And to say, Stupid transit workers. Stupid MTA. Make with the happy already!!

Fri, 09 Dec 2005 04:25:47 GMT

Hi new friends *waves* I am so. wiped. out. from the end of semester plus we got this dog. . .which came to class, to meetings, to the copy center because what dog really wants to be left home alone on his first week in a new forever home? But I will say it did not simplify matters.

In other momentous news, my babyspikelover has seen her first shows beyond OMWF--I described different episodes to her and she could choose the ones she wanted. We had to make sure no one important died and no people died and that it wasn't too scary. Her first choice of all the ones I described? Something Blue. Gee. What a surprise (although she thought Band Candy where the grown-ups act really irresponsibe sounded great, but, no Spike, so, no dice) So. Something Blue. At one point she paused it so she could ahem, kiss the screen-Spike. And now she goes around saying "Spike's evil, but you just have to love him anyway" and "Let's go kill something. For puppies, and Christmas! C'mon!" I've created a monster. A really, really cute monster, but

Will she still love me when someday (when she's in her thirties) she watches the end of S6? I think I'll be able to make a great moral allegory over it . . .but more on the adventures of babyspikelover will have to wait. Cause I could chat now, but I'd much rather, you know, grade.

Sat, 03 Dec 2005 19:23:50 GMT

Sure sign that I have piles of papers to grade. . .yes, not only am I feeling I should iron my linens but I am writing about it. And goodness! Unsightly dust (sure to be) on top of all the light fixtures! And perhaps, it's important to get on with the important *cough* research *cough* into the world of fan fiction. Once upon a time, when I was a TA at a university far, far away, I taught OMWF in a class. And ever since, my grading has a soundtrack

Every single night
I grade the papers
though they mostly really bite
Still I always feel this strange estrangement
nothing here is good nothing here is right
Will I have to grade forever
Sleepwalk through my life's endeavor
"how can I rewrite"--whatever
I'll give you a "B"

Going through the motions. . .

For Jane Austen fans

Fri, 02 Dec 2005 17:16:38 GMT

Generally, I am interested in any "crossover" fans if anyone happens by this, but I also believe that the world should know about this brilliant work:

http://www.lifeamgood.com/01aprbuffy.html

If you love Pride and Prejudice. . .you know you wanna dance. . .

Sun, 20 Nov 2005 03:53:49 GMT

OK, hosting a sleepover for 9 yearolds and should be writing my important and serious critical book but instead am exploring a whole new facet of my geekness. So what does that mean?

Thought of the day: When my little blonde daughter was 6 and afraid of vampires--she'd seen a scary looking poster while we were shopping for ears for her panther costume--I came up with the brilliant idea of telling her Buffy stories. "As it turns out, sweetie, the most powerful person in the world against vampires is a young girl with blonde hair, a girl not so different from you, as it happens. . ." and some time later, I decided it would be ok to show her the musical episode, which I had come to love because I had to teach it in a college course. Yes, I got into Buffy because I taught it as a TA--I did not even own a TV. My dad had been making me tapes of Buffy for years but I was like please, dad, I'm an intellectual, blah, blah, Anyway, so I finally show my daughter the show from which I've been stealing her female empowerment bedtime stories and who does she instantly fall in love with? Right. Spike. Rest in Peace became her "favorite song in the world." Still is. I only showed her the one episode. She watched it again, and again, and again. She wore out the video. We got the soundtrack. She got her friends the soundtrack. I had to explain to everyone's parents, ok, just the one episode unless you feel that the time for the S&M part of sex ed is now before 2nd grade. . .she had a OMWF slumber party for her 7th birthday. At 8 she's a vampire for Halloween (guess which one). She has a Spike calendar. This year we had a Spike pumpkin. 3 years, and still just the one ep. Spike all the way.

God I love female empowerment.