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Baked Goods. Epilogue A.

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Joined: 05 Oct 2003
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PostPosted: Fri Dec 02, 2011 10:30 am    Post subject: Baked Goods. Epilogue A. Reply with quote

It's been a while since I posted something at BRF first. You can find the main story at I recommend you read it first.

No, really. Read the main story first.

Don't say I didn't warn you....

TITLE: Baked Goods. Epilogue A
SUMMARY: Tying loose knots.
Thank You: to Kairos, for betaing the first three vignettes. I'm afraid I couldn't wait for the others to get betaed before posting. *guilty wince*... And to Ashes, for the cheerleading. What I'd do without such amazing friends, I don't know. Not writing, surely. *hugs*

Two minutes later.

Now that he’s acknowledged that, yes, Buffy is having a baby, the question that follows is unavoidable. "Buffy, can I ask...? I mean. Who's the father?"

Her eyes harden. “Does it matter?”

“You tell me.”

She holds her silence, but at his lack of insistence, she finally nods. “He freaked out at the Slayer business – big time. He said… lots of bad things.”

Angel can picture the scene, having met plenty of humans who don’t react well to the news that the world is nothing like they imagine it. That does not give them the right to hurt Buffy. “Do you want me to kill him?”

Buffy snorts. “Even if you mean that, you’re late. Spike has dibs on him.”

If Spike got the chance to threaten the guy, it means that they broke up before Buffy found out about the baby. “Does he know he’s the father?”


Angel doesn’t know whether to laugh or scream. “Don’t even joke about that,” he chokes out instead.

She giggles. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Will you ever tell him?”

Raising her face toward him, Buffy throws him an annoyed glare. “I knew I should have called the vampire who doesn’t care for paternity rights.”

His hands lift in a sign of surrender. “I just don’t want you to regret missed opportunities.”

“I won’t.” The firm statement brings the conversation to an end, and it isn’t long until Buffy pushes herself off the couch and beckons him to follow. “Even if I ever did,” Angel hears her mutter as they reach the kitchen area and put the dirty dishes in the sink, “I’ll deal and move on. That’s my gig.”

Two hours later.

Angel stares at the instructions. “Somewhere, something evil is laughing,” he sighs, thumbing through pages and pages of do’s, don’ts, and unhelpful diagrams.

The crib – or, more accurately, the tumble of pieces, screws, and bolts – mocks him from its corner in a room otherwise prepared for its coming occupant.

“You said you have experience.”

He does. He certainly remembers the weeks when putting his son to sleep was his priority after the sun went down. One more look at the assembly instructions, then at the unorganized wooden sections, and he sighs again. “I must have blocked out this part.”

Buffy arches an eyebrow. “All the stuff that happened, and this is what you blocked?”

How much has Connor told her, exactly?

More than an hour later, he has made progress. Or he will, if he manages to stretch halfway around the room to reach the escaped small wrench without everything falling apart. He grunts Buffy’s name, asking for help.

At her lack of response, Angel turns to the rocking chair where she retired earlier.

She is sleeping, of course.

If they were any other people, he would let his work fall down gently, walk up to her and nudge her out of her slumber – or perhaps kiss her back into awareness. He would make sure that she got out of those ill-fitting clothes and into something soft and comfortable, maybe nudge her to take a hot shower on her way to bed.

But she is Buffy and he is Angel, and the only change since this afternoon is that she won’t fight him at every single step.

The headboard and spring frame clatter onto the floor, and Buffy snaps to attention.

“Sorry,” Angel says, already moving to the window. “You should get some rest,” he throws over his shoulder.

She mumbles an affirmative, voice blurred in sleepiness, and gets to her feet. “What about you?” she remembers to ask when she’s already at the doorway.

After making sure that the curtains (spotted with caricature horses, sheep, and cows) are closed snugly, he turns toward her and shrugs. “It’ll be a while.”

Two days later:

“This is your new place?” Buffy doesn’t look particularly impressed. “I thought you’d go for something… more Crawford Street mansion and less one-bedroom-pad.” She passes her finger over the surface of the lower floating shelf, and shudders at the film of dust that clings to her skin. “Why would you want to stay here? Connor is always going on how you’ve got some grand, spotless house for yourself while he and Faith have to share – oh my god, Angel!”

When the sunlight filtering through the necro-tempered windows doesn’t turn him to ash, she stands staring at him, then at the windows, then back at him. Her head shakes to clear off the daze, and then she speaks: “Are you crazy?”

Angel laughs. The look on her face….

Then he quiets down as he realizes this is the first time he’s seen her in sunlight in years.

For her, it’s the first.

“You’re beautiful.”

It takes him a moment to realize the words are hers. He smiles at her blush, decides not to comment, and motions for her to follow him to the next room. She is beautiful, too, but there are paths that are not theirs to follow anymore.

He starts talking, pretending that he can’t tell that her eyes now are avoiding him. “It’s amazing how you take a childhood in a deserted world, add memories of a suburban home, and it ends up in weapons and electronic toys all over the place.” He chuckles, both at his son’s home life and because he is pleased when Buffy looks more at ease and comes to walk at his side. “It drives Faith crazy, especially because there’s nothing she can do about it.”

“Someone who annoys Faith to distraction, and she’s helpless against it.” Buffy’s chuckle has an edge of vengeance. “Who said Karma was a bitch?”

Two weeks later.

When Angel steps out of his car and into the Portland night, he takes a second to breathe in the air and ready himself.

Then he takes another breath, and another….

It will never stop amazing him how the smell and moods of human settlements can change so drastically from one to another. L.A. is a flurry of cars, tanned beach goers, ubiquitous tourists, and castles in the air. The hope of more makes good bait for the newcomers, and those who know better still carry their old dreams against their chest, cradling them closer when they think nobody is looking.

In Portland, people have their feet firmly planted on the earth. He wonders whether that’s why Buffy chose their Hellmouth over the other three in the continent. During the last days, he’s already seen humans show more signs of an awareness of a different world underneath theirs than in all his years in California. The last time he saw so few people go out after sunset, he was living in Sunnydale – a tiny town more in tandem with the communities of his youth than the booming cities of the present.

Or maybe there just has never been much of a night scene here.

Buffy would know; she always loved to go dancing.

She still does, Angel knows. He’s caught her more than once dancing her way from the fridge to the stove, looking happy and perhaps a tiny bit awkward with the new gravity center her body has enforced. But she’s never embarrassed, not even when she senses his notice.

The girl he knew would have looked like she wanted to melt into the walls, if she’d been caught in such a silly position. The woman he’s started to visit just laughed at his face and dared him to do a better performance.

She would have laughed harder if Angel had taken the challenge, but he did not.

He doesn’t want too many good memories of this time.

But a few of them…. That can’t be bad, can it?

“Damn it,” he tells himself, noticing he’s stood next to his car for the last five minutes. He walks up to the intercom, and rings her number.


Then twice more.

“Oh no, she didn’t,” he mutters as the speaker stays silent.

He pulls out his cell phone and dials her number.

After five rings, his call is picked up.

The voice on the other side is not Buffy’s.


He is exhausted, worried; and though he’ll never admit it aloud, if he had a beating heart, it would be racing a mile per hour. The latest emergency in L.A. hasn’t been as stressful as the twenty minutes spent racing from Buffy’s place to his own.

When Angel throws the door open, he looks on at the scene in his living room and sighs. “Couldn’t you answer your own phone?”

Laid out on his sofa, Buffy doesn’t even bother to open her eyes. “I left it in my purse,” she says, stretching her feet a little further into the lap of her companion. “Too far away.”

Angel turns his annoyance toward Spike. It’s easier, after all. It always has been. “Couldn’t you have given it to her?”

Spike’s face says that, even if the idea had crossed his mind, he wouldn’t have done so. “The lady needs her rest,” he says smoothly, voice full of unsaid compliments meant for her and eyes sharp with a taunting edge aimed at him, and continues massaging Buffy’s feet.

Angel responds with a soundless snarl. Spike smirks back.

All is as it should be.

Until the lady in question rouses herself enough to look between them and frown. “I can’t believe you guys aren’t fighting.”

“You always brought out the best of us, pet.” Buffy’s frown deepens; but when she tries to tuck in her legs, Spike keeps hold of her feet. “You’re getting too sensitive,” he mumbles, “if you’re overreacting over a little white lie.”

Angel decides that they need a change of subject. Buffy may not be at her physical best, but he has the niggling feeling that she can still wipe the floor with a vampire who wouldn’t dare hurt her back – or even the two of them.

And if Spike deserves it… well. If the younger vampire got a pounding every time he deserved it, he wouldn’t have reached his first decade with him and Darla. Besides, even if Angel hasn’t expected to witness proof of it under his roof, it’s obvious that Spike and Buffy have somehow managed to become friends.

Whether Angel likes or dislikes the idea has no importance. Spike’s presence here, for whatever reason, is progress. “What happened to keeping to yourself?”

Buffy and Spike glare at each other for a few more seconds, but then Spike arches and eyebrow and Buffy huffs irritably. But she leans back down, closing her eyes, and the foot massage starts again.

“Buffy?” Angel insists.

“Perhaps you showed me the error of my ways,” she answers at last, so comfortable that the smile accompanying her words could be called lazy. Her hand comes to rest on top of her belly; it lies there, moving only with the rhythm of her breath.

The Bun must be moving.

And no, he can’t believe she’s gotten him to use that name either. But, as she pointed out, until she settles on a boy name, what other option do they have?

“That means you called your friends, too?”

It’s not that he wants the old gang to descend on Portland, but she can use company other than the undead.

Unable to keep his thoughts to himself, Spike scoffs at the idea. “As if we need the judgmental patrol.”

Buffy doesn’t argue with that, instead she angles her body so that now it’s her ankles getting rubbed down. “After the Bun comes, I told you. I’ll think about it then.” She shudders in pleasure, content like a cat with a bowl of milk.

Angel has the sudden need to yank Spike out of his seat; between the centuries of violence and the last years shoving their mutual dislike down in order to work together, it takes him a moment to recognize the feeling.



It’s Buffy, taken aback by his sudden bark of laughter.

He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says. It has to be nothing. Because feeling jealous of Spike representing the dairy product in an analogy…. That is too crazy a thought to dwell on it.

He loves Buffy. It’s not the same as when he lived in Sunnydale, when he loved her with passion and fervor, astonished that she could return his feelings, but he loves her. He could love her like that again, he knows.

Angel also knows that the last couple of weeks have been the most peaceful he’s felt while being close to her. The most peaceful since….

“It’s nothing,” he repeats, a little more stridently. When Buffy shoots him a glance, the arch of her eyebrows more worried than curious, he makes sure to send a placid smile back. “Go on. I’ll probably be down for the rest of the night.” Driving for hours after a long battle would tire anyone. Maybe Faith was right. Maybe he should have stayed overnight in L.A., in his own home, where the couch is free of ex girlfriends and their enemies-turned-ex-lovers.

Maybe he should take up a hobby while he’s in Portland. With no duties except Buffy’s protection, the idle hours are obviously messing with his head.

“All right…. You do look exhausted,” Buffy says, then signals Spike to pause the massage. “Everything okay?”

“A group of Jahus didn’t like the treaty their elders signed.” It’s nothing but the truth; but Buffy gives him a look, waiting for a straight answer. “I’m fine.”

He is.

He really is.

It’s not like he can dare feel anything else when he’s with her. Not ever again.

Two months later.


Angel looks down at the list, groaning at the dozen or so new additions scribbled down in a corner, almost hidden by the blotches of ink left behind by discarded options. He meant to finish his latest sketch today, before he headed off for patrol. But Buffy won’t let him have any peace until they’ve got through the new names; it’s better to get started early.

His first comment comes easily: “Not ‘Lindsey’.”

“What’s wrong with –” She watches him cross it out, then rolls her eyes at herself. “Oh, I forgot. I did say no unisex names.”

If it’ll stop her from using it without further explanation, he’ll go with that excuse. “Martin?”

“Martin Summers,” she sighs, smiling into her cup of chamomile. If Angel listens intently, he thinks he can hear the smaller heartbeat stress at the possibility of such a name. Oblivious to her child’s protests (okay, his protests, but someone has to protect that kid from his mother’s whimsy moods), Buffy grins. “Doesn’t it sound nice?”


Buffy purses her lips, but says nothing as he draws a line through the name.

Angel is sure he had more patience last week, and even more the week before that. But Buffy changes her mind on names faster than she used to go through lipstick shades when she was getting ready for a date. He never meant to be enrolled into this task. It started innocently enough, with Buffy asking him to list the names he remembered from the time he’d been alive; to strike them out from the get go, you see.

Spike was asked to do the same.

Which doesn’t explain why Angel is the only one sitting across from Buffy in her living room, poring down a piece of paper he’s studied at least a dozen times in the last couple of weeks – and had nightmares about at least once.

By the time he realized that Buffy needed a constant bouncing board to select a name, it was too late. He begged Faith to take his place; three days later Buffy was grumbling about some people having the nerve to suggest ‘Rocky’, ‘Melvin’, and ‘Niles’.

If he could, he would disinherit Faith.

(He wouldn’t. But it’s a nice thought to have when she pulls stunts like that.)

“Ethan?” The sight of that name pulls Angel out of his reverie, and he gives her an incredulous look. “Do you plan to never tell Giles about the baby?” Her forehead creases, and she stares at him until…. “Halloween, Buffy. Cursed costumes?”

“Oh.” Long sigh, followed by a thoughtful sip of her drink. “Damn. And he even went personal and turned Giles into a Fyarl demon.” Angel thinks it was personal long before either he or Buffy met Giles, but there’s no point discussing her Watcher’s youth. “I have too many enemies with good names,” she laments, keeping on her side of the conversation. “’Adam’ would have been perfect. Or ‘Caleb’.”

He tries them out. Adam Summers. Caleb Summers. “How bad were those guys?”

Her shudder answers better than a verbal response. “Bad enough. I know I shouldn’t let the past cloud the future, but…. No way.”

Angel just ruled out the name of a man for whose death he’s responsible. He certainly won’t judge her. “From now on, we use codenames.”

She gives him an amused look. “To have more options for next time?”

There’s nothing to do but to blink. Damn. He didn’t mean it that way.

He is sure he didn’t.

Buffy glances down at her body, and caresses the rise of her stomach. “Sorry to disappoint, but it’s just the Bun and I for a long, long time to come.”

Angel knows that, but the part of him that has grown comfortable around her can’t help but point out, “You didn’t expect this one, either.”

If her belly had ears, she would be covering them with both hands. “Not out loud, Angel!”

“Sorry.” To show his repentance, he goes back to the list. Colin. Trevor. Drake. Joss. Brett. Logan…. He’s sure they’ve discussed and discarded at least half of these. “You said ‘Colin’ was the name of a spoiled brat.”

She smiles sheepishly, and sets her cup down to come sit next to him, situating herself so she’s also reading the list. “I finished the book. The boy isn’t really that bad. In fact, he ends up going after his dreams and he believes in magic. That has to be a sign.”

A sign of her anxiety to find a name soon, perhaps. Not that Angel gives voice to that particular thought. He remembers his own concern about finding a fitting name for his son, after all. “Colin Summers,” he says aloud, testing the syllables.

“Colin Summers,” Buffy echoes; her smile widens.

Angel smiles back. “We have a winner.” Absently, he places his hand on the side of the belly. “You have a name, Bun.”

Until Buffy changes her mind again, of course. But at least this means he can go back to his sketch.


The next day, a drawing of Buffy is smiling up at him from his sketch book. He started putting down to paper scenes from Portland – Mount Hood and Mount Adams rising up from between the buildings, families strolling in the park, a neutral family of hybrids who’d moved into the neighborhood when they heard rumors of his presence. But a week later he found himself adding Buffy to the background, and she’d rapidly made her way to the forefront of his work.

This is the first time he’s made a full-body drawing of her, though.

“You know,” Buffy says, looking down at the same page, “when I said ‘no pictures’, I should have been more specific.”

“You look amazing.” He looks between her and the small portrait, pleased to confirm the resemblance. “All maternal, sweet, and….”

Thankfully, she lifts a hand to stop him before his mouth keeps running on. “You say the word ‘glow’ anywhere in that sentence and I will stake you.” She waves toward her front door, heaving a sigh. “I’m tired of Mrs. Rodríguez dropping in at all hours, gushing over my new glow. I don’t care how good or how healthy her homemade cupcakes are. Ghi-jou demons glow,” she almost snarls, “I don’t.”

He wonders whether he should mention that Ghi-jou glow when they’re aroused. Probably not. “You are the least glowing woman I’ve seen,” he says, keeping his voice serious. He handled Drusilla and her maddening visions for decades. The last weeks with Buffy have almost made him long for those days.

Buffy’s eyes peer at him, but in the end she lets out a long sigh. “Men!”

Angel doesn’t point that it’s by her own decision that she has none of her female friends close at hand. She hasn’t even told her sister about the baby, much less Willow or whatever other girlfriends she might have made over the years. Faith hasn’t come back to Portland, and Buffy hasn’t asked her to.

He got tired of arguing with her about spreading the news weeks ago. Her only concession has been to start exchanging phone calls and e-mails more often, because “like you said, they might come check things out if they don’t hear from me. Especially Dawn. She would have come visit last month if Cleveland hadn’t been almost swallowed into hell.”

Angel remembers that night, fighting sorcerers who viewed a Hellmouth as a convenient source of power, uncaring that they were weakening the defenses Willow and the coven she’d joined had put around the site.

At least nobody, not even Willow, had thought to ask him about Buffy’s absence. Giles had pulled Faith aside, but she’d just shaken her head and shrugged her shoulders.

And Buffy’s secret stayed safe.

Angel knows it will only make it worse when her friends do find out, especially when they discover it was he who got to share these months with her, but Buffy won’t listen to him. This is her time, she said. Hers and the Bun’s (there was no list of names yet). Besides, there’s no sharing; it is Angel who butted his way in and dragged Spike, Connor, and Faith right behind him.

He still wants to plead innocence on the Spike charge.

“You can keep it,” he returns the conversation back to track, being careful to dislodge the drawing from the sketch book. “But it’s not yours.” He nods at her belly. “It’s for him.”

She presses her lips into a thin line, her eyelids blinking too quickly.

Angel sighs. He forgot about the hazards of doing something nice for a woman prompt to get emotional at the drop of a hat. “I didn’t do it so you’d cry.”

Her turning around and marching off into the kitchen comes as no surprise. Buffy never liked anyone to witness her tears. “I know,” she whispers, laying his drawing on the counter and staring down at it. “I just… I never thought I’d see one of these and feel so….”

He steels himself. Whatever she says now can’t be worse than the nausea that overcame him when he realized he’d used his only human talent to bring terror into her life.

“Thank you,” she says at last, spinning back to face him. “Thank you so much.”

‘Thank you for what?’ Angel wants to ask.

The words stick in his throat.

He gives a tight nod instead, and mumbles about an early sweep at the cemetery before turning toward the door.

All the things he’s done for her... All the things he’s left in Faith’s or Lorne’s hands, when he’s the one meant to do them…

…and she thanks him for a drawing?

No wonder that, once, he loved her so damn much.



Two days later, Angel looks up from his new project to find Buffy standing before him, her hands at her hips. “Is it sunset already?”

He cannot open the curtains in her apartment, and with only a few days to go, it feels like a waste to change the windowpanes. But he can feel the sun go down outside. “Yes.”

“Okay. Then it’s definitive, the Bun likes you.”

She doesn’t like ‘Colin’ anymore. Last night’s pick was ‘Matt’.

Poor kid is going to spend a month in the nursery without a proper name.

Unaware of the turn of his thoughts, Buffy tosses him the car keys he’d left on the small table next to the front door; the one where all keys, bus cards, and such seem to end up when one enters the apartment. “He also wants you to drive us to the hospital,” she tells him as she grabs a familiar bag.

Her hospital bag.

“Uh… Now?”

That was not a panicked squeak.

“Relax. Hicks contractions are the rage these days. It’s probably that.” She takes his arm and pulls him to the door, barely giving him time to set down his tools. “But if it’s the real thing….” She takes a deep breath and keeps pulling. “I’m telling you now, Angel. If the anesthesia wears out and you’re not around…. I don’t care that the time is up, with the baby here. I don’t give a damn about your usual nonsense…. If you dare go while I’m at the hospital, so help me God – or, actually, have Him help you. Because it’s over. You’re ashes if you leave me alone there.” Buffy brings them to a halt in the middle of her living room, and looks him in the eye. “Understand?”

“You’re asking me to stay,” he translates, unable to keep the words to himself.

Buffy blinks, as if such a conclusion hadn’t occurred to her. “I’m asking you not to go.”

“I can’t stay.” Even if he was willing to make her the center of his universe again, he doesn’t have the luxury to choose that path. He has a place in L.A., whereas he’s only filling in for her on this Hellmouth. It’s not that he planned to leave just yet; in fact, until she mentioned it, the possibility hadn’t even occurred to him. But…. “I can’t.”

“I know.” Her hand clenches the strap of her overnight bag. The other hand has moved from around his arm to busy itself drawing circles on her belly; if the motion is to calm herself or the Bun, he wonders whether Buffy herself knows. “Just… don’t go.”

“Not now?”

Buffy nods.

“Not now, then.” Angel takes her wrist and leads her down the last steps to the front door. “I mapped out the fastest way to the hospital,” he tells her, trying to ease them into casual conversation, and then directs a stern glance at her midsection. “And you can wait until then, buddy. I didn’t search all over for the best classic car in creation, to lose the original upholstery tonight.”

That makes Buffy giggle, and she also addresses her belly next. “He’s not making us go any faster, is he?”

Angel takes the hint and twists the doorknob open. “Give me that,” he says, already moving to grab the bag. Shouldering it, he steps across the doorway and turns around, intending to offer her his arm. She will refuse, but the gesture needs to be made.

“My keys!” she cries, ducking back into the apartment, and pushing the door out so she can reach the table next to it.

Suddenly, he realizes that he’s out in the hallway while she’s still inside, with a door between them. He almost laughs. He and Buffy do have a way of coming full circle, even when they don’t mean to.

Then the door is thrown wide open and she rushes out to join him, keys dangling from her fingers and excitement in her eyes. “Ready?”

Never, he thinks. Or perhaps, Too late.

“Of course,” he says aloud, presenting his elbow to her.

Buffy rolls her eyes and takes one step forward, then her shoulders lift in a playful shrug. “What the hell,” she tells herself, already stepping backwards to thread her arm through his.

And she leans into him.

The End
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PostPosted: Mon Dec 05, 2011 6:00 am    Post subject: Reply with quote



I hear there is an epilogue 2?

"Been playing a little Ahab."
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PostPosted: Mon Dec 05, 2011 6:02 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

Still in the works. Like I told Ital, never trust my word when it comes to fics. That's why I'm better with one-shots. The new sequel? I'm two scenes in and everybody is wishy-washy on how the story should move on.

*pokes characters*

As far as I'm concerned, this is a good end. If something else comes up, then yay. If not, oh well.
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PostPosted: Mon Dec 05, 2011 6:13 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

Here's the first scene, straight from the oven. Smile


<i>Two years later.</i>

Connor doesn’t claim to have much experience with children. His older sister sends weekly e-mails with news of her three kids and their dogs, plus the occasional addition of her husband in a corner of the pictures. Now that’s a man who looks confused. In his mid-thirties and hair already going thin, Kyle still manages to look bewildered as to how a paralegal assistant who’d earned enough money to hit the L.A. club scene every weekend ended up in the suburbs.

Sometimes Connor feels sorry for him. After all, Kyle was the first to offer him a shot of brandy when he was still eighteen, and the older man had laughed when Connor choked on it.

Yes, Connor likes her sister’s husband. If he could have called anyone to stand by him at his wedding – and not fear that Faith would bolt during the wait – Kyle’s private number would have been the first he’d have dialed.

Connor often wonders what kind of humor was preferred by the wizard who built his life with the Reillys. He has fonder memories of his brother-in-law than the woman supposed to be his blood sister, and no more than a few glimpses of two nephews and one niece, plus a collection of crayon-adorned birthday cards he’d left behind when he moved permanently to L.A.

How he wishes that someone had thought to include some memories of watching over the kids while Kyle took Sarah away for an afternoon in the city, or at least a couple hours worth of experience babysitting the neighbor’s kids.


The toddler rushes past him, a roll of soggy paper towel clutched in tiny, jam-smeared hands.

That same roll was dry and on the kitchen counter not five minutes ago. The counter that is almost twice as high as the top of a two-year-old’s head – and where there should be no way to climb onto, as they’d used every chair available (all four of them), to fashion a fort.

“Your mom is gonna kill me,” Connor groans, picturing his charge hanging from the edge of the counter; then he pictures Buffy’s reaction if she were to find out.


"That’s it." He tightens his grip on the towel he went to collect, and decides to make a last attempt at getting the child clean, all the while wishing he would have joined the others and was fighting the end of the world instead.

After another fifteen minutes, Connor plops down on the sofa and watches the soapy kid leave sudsy footprints all over the floor. “Yeah,” he sighs to himself, "Death by Slayer it is.”
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PostPosted: Mon Dec 05, 2011 6:24 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

And still no name? You tease! Smile

Nice background on Connor's life.

"Death by Slayer." I like it. Very Happy

Thanks for the preview.

"Been playing a little Ahab."
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PostPosted: Mon Dec 05, 2011 6:27 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

You're either gonna laugh yourself silly or throw rocks at me if I reveal the name.


And I thought it was an accepted fact that I'm a tease. Twisted Evil
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PostPosted: Mon Dec 05, 2011 8:45 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

"Been playing a little Ahab."
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PostPosted: Mon Jan 02, 2012 6:06 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Ah! I must have made a mental note to get back here after reading the rest of the story, and then lost the mental note. Good thing you gave me a reminder!

So, to quote Buffy's offspring, YAAAAYYYYYY! This is so adorable and playful and CONNOR! and I can't wait to hear whatever insane name you've picked and what Angel's up to and so forth and yay.

I love baked goods.
But there the silver answer rang: not Death, but Love.
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PostPosted: Mon Jan 02, 2012 6:34 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

*g* Glad you enjoyed this last bit. And of course it had to be Connor, lol. He's the poor sap stuck with a non-sibling almost twenty-five years his junior.


It would be lovely if Angel deigned to speak up in this future, wouldn't it? lol.
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