explosante-fixe

Fat Yuuko? Alphonse's briefs? Do not want. Carrot Butt? Yes please.

Featuring Aroe as Rabi of D.Gray-man, one Road, and two adorable Japanese cosplayers.

NOT ON MUTE ANYMORE
The L Word: Season 4

Coming back from Canada, we find the "lez-girls" (what the frell?) in decidedly better shape. Although the drama is still there as always (I mean everywhere), the urge to slap the characters is pretty much gone.
Most admirably, Bette and Tina are finally interesting again -- hell, Tina even manages to be hot at times. Bette's new job introduces the hilarious character of born-again Phyllis and her unfortunate husband (pictured here having an emo moment and attempting girl talk with the clan). Shane is yet again thrown into a heart-breaking plotline. Alice meets her not-taking-your-bullshit match, and there's het drama, too! In spite of Jenny taking her assholery to new heights (with poodles and veterinarians...), I feel it's been one of the best seasons so far -- perhaps even the best.


NOW WITH SLOW-DANCING ALIENS
Supernatural: Season 2

I have to admit it -- I didn't know what to think of Supernatural at first. I thought, this is funny, sure, but are they planning to take themselves seriously or...? And then there was the end of season one, and the beginning of season two. Thus the miracle happened: not only SPN was funnier than ever, but it was also heart-wrenching and "thinky". We got funky new characters, who nevertheless succeeded at not taking the spotlight away from the core of the show: two brothers, a car, the road. We got insane episodes, nods to incest slashers, and slow-dancing aliens. And those Winchesters keep going. What more could one fangirl want?


THE TRITTER CRUSADE (AND THE COMA GUY)
House: Season 3

There was House. There were his cronies. There was Wilson and Cuddy (and yeah, fine, there was Stacy, too, for a while).

Then there was Tritter, who, in his mighty holiness, decided it was time for some amazing character development. And character development under pressure there was. Not to mention Coma Guy, who may have lasted one episode, but spoke volumes on House's relationship with the patients he "visits" the most -- well, not only that. So we continue to worship the pimp cane.

D.Gray-man
MOST WTF WORTHY

Wherein Kanda gets pummelled for hours by that motherfuckin' akuma while Allen, unscathed, most likely looks on, off-screen, before hopping back in.

Bizarre continuity, anyone?
Are fangirls writing this script?
If that's the case...why isn't there more Komui? Hmm. I suppose I'll watch the rest Mystery Science Theater-style when I have time to spare.



Black Lagoon: The Second Barrage
MOST AMAZING SEQUEL

I'm not sure I have words for this. I'll only state, for now, that I (one who only sheds a tear at moments like the Rohirrim charging in The Return of the King) have laughed, laughed, laughed; gritted my teeth, shivered, wept, clutched my stuffed animals, and loved. The first season was fabulous; this sequel headed to places I hadn't imagined, in three acts: first, the unspeakably gripping, secondly, the magnificently on crack, and thirdly, the epic, grandiose-then-back-on-earth tragedy.

Watch and see; this is so much more than cool-looking, gun-toting bastards.

Bakumatsu Kikansetsu Irohanihoheto
MOST INCOMPREHENSIBLE PLOT

Oh, the Irohasomethingsomething! How good it looks! How fascinating it seems! But what the hell is going on?

Well, some of us will never know. Apparently, we shouldn't regret it; it appears they kicked Kanna out.






Yamato Nadeshiko Shichi Henge
MOST HILARIOUS SOUNDTRACK SEQUENCES

Sunako is serious chibi business. Who cares if the bishie design remains questionable for many reviewers? It's all about the Sunako, her brutal transformations into...magical killer girl, I suppose...and the sudden musical changes which inevitably occur. Hop, sweet-creepy Addams family music! Hop, loud angry hard rock! Hop, sugary waltzes! Rock on, Sunako-chan.





Manabi Straight!
MOST PLEASANTLY OVERVITAMINIZED

In the fashion of Ichigo Mashimaro, they say. Except I gave Ichigo Mashimaro a try, and didn't even giggle. Indeed, the whole "nothing whatsoever happening" thing struck me. Hard. But this? Manabi? I grin and guffaw. The characters and their antics have won me over, and the somewhat ridiculous fanservice moments are sometimes kind of incredible. For instance: after seeing the Muchi and Mikan scenes, one would go, "mein Gott! truly this is shoujo-ai; aye, Butch Muchi". Then the dear writers and animators have the very same Muchi engage in some disturbing popsicle-blowjob action! (Not linking that. You DO NOT want me to link that.) HA. On the less disturbing side, loli-skirt-shaking is cute. In my opinion, at least.


Nodame Cantabile
MOST ACCURATE SLICE-OF-MY-LIFE (ONLY FUNNIER)

Oh, music school. The love! The hate! Well, now that I'm elsewhere, it is the love that remains, thanks to series such as these. The narrator, our hero, is the ultimate adorable snob. As for the other characters, well... "they all suck" (musically, that is!) while Nodame makes weird faces and noises. The animation is less excellent than Honey and Clover, but even if you have extremely high standards, or are reading the manga, you cannot miss this: the added musical dimension is too wonderfully done. Lol, rehearsals!

Ikkitousen: Dragon Destiny
MOST KICK-ASS & BOOTY-FULL AWESOME IN THE "RETURN OF THE SO BAD IT'S GOOD" CATEGORY

Forget Blonde Hakufu -- she was the star of the precedent series, after all. Now for the key duel: on one side, the allegory of Zen, Kanu Uncho; on the other, that of Angst, Ryoumo Shimei. Ha! Ryoumo, you emo eye-patched bitch, you are going dow--

Sorry, getting a bit carried away here. Well. The facts are simple: if you are not insensitive to the addictiveness of not-really-clad ass-kicking highschoolers (note that the boys, not-so-sadly, remain mostly clothed), you are doomed. Rush forward, fist raised, to the war cry of "I AM LALALA LALALA, THE REINCARNATION OF THE HEROIC CHINESE WARRIOR! DIE, SCUM!"...or, alternatively, "BOOBS!!!".


Next, thoughts on this year's (American) tv shows I've been following (nothing British so far; blame The Tudors for hurting my French pride). As for the anime spring season, the promising title of Hayate "the Combat Butler!" is...still promising after the first episode. I am glad.

THE PATH OF TRUTH IS PLAIN AND SAFE
harry potter, pg; sirius/remus


I had a moment of clarity, saw the feeling in the heart of things, walked out of the garden crying.
Saw the red blossoms in the night light, sun's gone, they had all grown
– Allen Ginsberg

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, dong.

Remus looked up as Peter extended his arm dramatically, eyes strained on the pocket watch he'd found earlier. This is our life, passing, passing by, he added, voice quivering – for a moment, the world seemed to shimmer, as a gust of hot wind blew past, and suddenly it was them once more: the garden, the pond, Remus' book (open between sweaty palms), Peter's feet (raising clouds of mud in the water), James leaning (sitting on the porch, reaching toward the yellow grass), and Sirius, who hadn't spoken in a day, laying next to him (hands quietly, quietly resting on his chest).

Peter, me, you and him, James had written. Show some moral support, you know. Remus understood, even though the prospect of the four of them, alone for a week (deprived of Mrs. Potter's mood-lifting cupcakes), had a mildly frightening aspect. Still, the next day, there they were: Peter, Remus, the trunks; Mr. Potter's handshake, Mrs. Potter's embrace, and the silent kitchen with the brioche set on the table, wrapped in a towel.

They'd had tea. They'd shared the brioche. Sirius had held his cup steadily, gazing into the distance, calm like a saint; Peter had twisted his ankles around the feet of his chair in a complicated manner; James, probably overcome with his new role of host, had pursed his lips in a way somewhat reminiscent of Lily Evans. Remus had wanted to laugh, because he didn't quite know how to cry.

If this were the end of the world (Peter had whispered to him, once, in their Hogwarts bedroom), what would you do? Turning the page, Remus thought: it certainly feels like it, but that was no answer. He didn't need to look up again to picture the scene, unchanged (Peter troubled, James bearing, Sirius untouchable – Merlin, Moony, Peter had said to him, he's like a walking painting…what should we do?).

The church bells rang again.

An owl came that night. James, expecting well-wishes from his parents, ran rather inelegantly across the room to open the window, but the bird bore down on Sirius (startled, at last, spilling pumpkin juice on his lap), dropped a sealed roll of parchment over his head, and zoomed back out.

Remus picked up the letter as Sirius muttered a cleaning charm, and handed it to him. Peter blinked in surprise as Sirius ripped it open, and scanned it quickly. Is it, James started, walking back toward them, is it from –? But Sirius could not answer. He set the letter down, smoothed it, and pushed his chair back. Then, only then, did his shoulders start shaking.

There was a clanging sound as Peter's fork fell. James had paused in the middle of the room, seemingly unable to move further. Remus found himself standing behind Sirius' chair (trying to catch James' eye, and failing), and since nobody was doing anything (it's all wrong, he thought, all wrong), he put his arms around Sirius' neck (just short of resting his chin on Sirius' head), and waited.

They did not look at the letter, of course. Putting Sirius to bed was something of a collective effort; afterwards, they came back to the kitchen and finished the last piece of brioche. Damn you, James, Peter said (in a tone so bizarrely gentle he could've said bless you, James), and James replied, I know.

Sirius didn't get out of bed the next day, which was not unexpected. James stayed with him all morning, and at lunchtime Peter read Quidditch articles aloud to him (he thought it'd earn him some success, since he was horrible at it), for neither Sirius nor him felt like eating. Remus, who wasn't sure how much good his presence would do (if at all), took a stroll in the sunlit garden while James and Peter played chess (with many a war cry, to fill up the silence).

Oi, Sirius called as Remus walked past his open window, you're fired. Where's my tea tray?

Remus approached, clambered up the windowsill (I see the patient is back to his insufferable self), and saw Sirius grinning at him. A fly hummed impatiently around the room.

Well, he said. Well.

Well, Sirius replied, do you –? And Remus meant to say, yes, because there was no other answer,
really, but a crash,
and a shout,
came from the kitchen,
as the fly buzzed past his ear.

Later, James and Sirius greeted the returning Potters, as Peter and Remus packed their things, mixing up a few socks in the process. There was the handshake and the embrace again, and the you're welcome to stay a bit longer if you'd like, and the thank you, but our parents are expecting us (expecting – what?), and off they were, the four of them, to the garden shed in the back with the watering can-portkey.

There was some shoulder-slapping, a little shoulder-grabbing, and a lot of restraint. James fiddled with his glasses, and Sirius was gazing off again, but Peter took Remus' hand (for he was staying over at the Lupins'), and someone said, well, we'll see you at old Hogwarts, then, and Remus closed his eyes.

Later still, once Peter was gone, Remus found the ancient pocket watch in his trunk; a curious vestige. So it had been true, he thought (with something not quite like a pang of regret, but more like shame, or self-disappointment, spreading cold to his fingertips), stuffing it in a drawer. So it had been true.

a/n: this fic was written for the shacking up minimal prompt fic exchange and based on riverflame's lovely prompt.

thanks to sazzlette for the snazzy beta, The Fray and S for musical inspiration, and Leonard Bernstein & Stephen Wadsworth for providing the title in A Quiet Place.

whales, listening
harry potter, pg-13; peter/regulus and TIME

Think of whales, men and birds. If one listens to the songs of whales, they are so spread out in time that what seems like a drawn out, endless and immense whine may only be a consonant to them. In other words, it is impossible to perceive their discourse with our time constant. In parallel, birdsong seems quite high and agitated to the human ear, because its time constant is much shorter than ours. It is difficult for us to perceive its subtle variations of timbre, while birds may perceive us like we perceive whales.

– Gérard Grisey

I.

- We're not supposed to talk, are we?

He stands at the corner of Knockturn Alley (a street too poseur to find real criminals in it, Peter's mother used to say, and that's precisely why they do go there), half-turning away.

- No. You're Peter Pettigrew.

Peter smiles, with a professional head tilt he's been practising lately (like a lot of other things that aren't quite him: night streets, smoking, even a decadent Sherlock Holmes look that really, really doesn't suit him at all).

Regulus looks back, all high-collared and dagger-eyed, and utters a time and place.

[whales]

His apartment is full of papers; at times, looks like it's made of papers. Remus may be the book man, but Peter needs to write things down. Most of them compromising, in fact, but who would spot what he doesn't want to see? (Not his friends. Of course.)

Regulus starts a small trail of his own, through Severus Snape and Avery. He goes up, up on the coffee table (braves the trappings of spilled cold tea), and down under the bed.

Later, Peter is puzzled to find him there (while checking for cockroaches, bewitched items and possibly his own nightmares), and, simultaneously, on his doorstep.

II.

[birds]

Soon, they stop worrying about time. Regulus knows spells that seem to stop the world at his convenience: no murders when he's having tea, no running when he's taking a midnight stroll. (Like all other tricks, bound to slip between his fingers; but if there's one thing Peter excels at, it's taking advantage.) And so they fall asleep in staircases, chat in the Knight Bus, and fuck against the third dustbin nearest to Borgin & Burkes (ten quid some disgusting slimy thing crawls out of this while I'm – ah – fuck. Fine, forget it).

[whales]

But hey, Pete's lost some weight, Sirius proclaims to the world at large; is he in love? And Peter smiles, again (wishing he didn't have to), thinking: no, not at all, just the hazardous consequences of leading multiple lives. I hear it's not great for your complexion, either.

Until next time, mate, James says, and Sirius calls out, we should also make our New Year resolutions, don't you think? Could do without some of that marriage fat, eh? – And it's a small festival of guffawing and jacket-grabbing, and Peter feels sixteen again for a little while.

Back home, he opens the cupboard and finds small, dried up muffins. He eats them all, almost without breathing.

III.

You really are a mediocre bastard, Regulus says, and Peter almost laughs, because only a Black would use bastard next to mediocre, or maybe the other way around. He finds it hard to think anymore, because my dear Reg, tu m'as fait tourner la tête, although he wouldn't be caught dead writing that, and what he did write was: soon.

Regulus is cautious, of course, but Peter has been practising. And so his (mostly one-sided) correspondence with Snape (returned to sender, rather than destroyed: because Severus Snape prefers to watch others go down even if he's not completely covered, and Regulus is sentimental enough to keep proof, for an hour and a half, that he tried to escape) is retrieved, copied and replaced in fifteen minutes, as he dozes off in Peter's armchair (legacy of his grandmother, infallible for afternoon naps) – and Peter thinks, settling down against his leg: if you knew this, you'd esteem me a lot more, wouldn't you?

But Regulus digs his nails into Peter's skull, has a brief blissful expression that reminds him of Bellatrix, asks (out of the blue) for coffee, then peers at him and says: this coffee is disastrous.

Peter looks away, and thinks: it would sound better in Sirius' mouth.

IV.

But

[whales]

wait.

And when it comes right down to it, even if it is such a small event that they cannot understand it, still it is there: a raindrop on the ocean, the birth of a plankton particle.

To them it is a high note in the song of birds.

V.

To Peter it's a fucking blur, like it's morning and he's late for class and didn't quite finish his toast (butter and jam, superimposed; honestly-Pete-you're-such-a-kid), and he's tripping over everybody's toes, including his own: Pettigrew, it's a marvel you ever get anything done, but there you are (his N.E.W.T.S. diploma: the first time he really got smashed – and you deserved it, mate: Sirius, snickering).

And eventually he gets there, and finds him: and Regulus frowns a little (doesn't say his name), and Peter's wand feels sticky and unreliable in his pocket, and suddenly he's not panicking at all;

catches something in Regulus' eye like but you; you are at the bottom of the ladder, but then it's just fuck, I'm about to die, righ–

[birds]

slumps, and clatter

then nothing.

VI.

Once it's over, there is that small transitional period which is rarely told: how Peter arranged the body because its position didn't look dramatic enough to him, how he went into a Muggle pub's toilet and retched (painfully, on an empty stomach) for three minutes; how it drove him mad that there wasn't any blood (except from his nose, because when he saw Bellatrix she laughed at him and broke his fucking nose, took a swing like it was nothing at all, and Rodolphus looked like he would squeeze her arm afterwards but thought better of it).

But it's true, you have lost some weight, Remus tells him the next day, and Peter means to say, sure, I'm a new man, only it comes out as: I'm a new nose, I mean, I have a new nose. And Sirius laughs and exclaims, Christ, Peter, bar brawls again?

Peter smiles: for later in the afternoon, when Mr. and Mrs. Black will be finishing their tea – in that lazy, deliquescent moment, an owl will come, because Death Eaters like killing with style, even when it's just erasing, and did I just think that?

But a hand settles on his shoulder, and he looks up into Sirius' face, and thinks: I've never loved you more.

untitled remus/lily
harry potter, pg-13;

When Remus arrives, the living-room looks like it's awaiting an army, or a culinary photo shoot: cakes & scones & muffins are piled up dangerously on the small tea table, extravagantly alluring. Please, make yourself comfortable, Mrs. Evans coos, and I understand you are one of James' friends, her husband begins (eyebrow raised with the promise of brandy and mature talks, between men). Sitting alone on the stairs, Petunia glares at him with something deeper and darker than dislike or why is it that Lily Evans would be the only girl in the neighbourhood getting away with inviting boys to stay overnight, and Remus attempts to smile at her, embarrassed, but Mrs. Evans is already seizing his shoulder, pressing him to tell them everything about James and his family – you have such a different point of view, you see.

Later it's Lily herself, with patched-up jeans and stained tops she will never admit to changing several times a day, and impossibly long and thin legs (somewhat boyish) that keep getting in the way wherever Remus tries to look (and not to look). Tomorrow they are due to go together to Diagon's Alley, because her mother insisted (and now she is so glad she's found someone (appropriate, decent) to accompany her), but today stretches and stretches like a lazy cat on a Sunday afternoon with the sound of Lily's voice-Petunia's steps, round and round in her room-noises from the kitchen where their parents, together, make and unmake their lives.

- It's not like we're going to braid each other's hair, Lily says, snorting as she rummages for something under her bed; Remus, sitting cross-legged on the sheets, toys a bit with her pillow before realising how inappropriate this is.

- No, I should hope not. Mine is hardly long enough to be braided. (Which prompts something indefinable: a sharp intake of air that leaves him wondering if she ever finds him funny.)

Eventually she emerges with a half-empty pack of cigarettes and a lighter – offers him one (declined), and when he asks if her mother wouldn't spot the smell, she tells him about this incredibly strong Tibetan incense she found shopping with Petunia once.

- I'm planning on giving up anyway, she adds, twirling the fag between her fingers before lighting it. (And, without further ado:) I'm making him wait, you know (takes a drag, holds it – Remus looks down at his hands). They say it's the only way to get through a bloke. Ridiculous, don't you think?

- I – wouldn't know. Surely his…infatuation with you goes beyond that.

And now she does laugh, without restraint, and looks at him (eyes bright and brighter: don't think of James) and says: Remus, taking his wrist; stubs out her cigarette, crosses her ankles, and squeezes.

Juan
buffy the vampire slayer, pg-13 (language); Faith, gen

for losselen

un

In Mexico she meets girls: girls with hardened eyes who think they've seen it all, girls wishing their boyfriends would get turned into vamps for them to stake, girls instinctively standing to attention under her gaze. Even those who put up a fight (a literal one, with broken cartilage) want her to lead already, for someone has to do the toughest job of all, senorita.

Motels again, and smells both real and imagined: sweat, wood cuttings, dried menstrual blood. Faith would give anything for a familiar presence, preferably male; hell, even Andrew. (Especially Andrew, in fact – oh, the shame.)

One of the younger slayers (bonkers, the lot of them) has taken to muttering a much-quoted poem over and over: last night I saw upon a stair/a little man who wasn't there (some of them stay dead, she'd barked to a sobbing-grieving sister; better get used to it, girl) he wasn't here again tonight (and she has to be the Watcher now) gee whiz I wish he'd go away¹ (you, too, darling, you, too).

During her brief retreats to some semblance of privacy, she takes out her map of the States. It's one of her few good-luck charms (although not on the practical side): found in a puddle of oil (in the third gas station on the road from Boston to Florida), ripped in places, it used to belong to a certain Juan T. – if one should believe the befuddling posh calligraphy (but who the fuck would pen his name on a map?).

All the same, Juan has travelled with her for quite some time now. Sometimes, she wishes he'd show his mug.



deux

New York sees her misdirected; thumbing through her ready-made memos (beer brand coasters, parking tickets; on a memorable occasion, a still-warm body part), she feels like a primly dressed orphan holding out her letter of recommendation.

Instead of a tight-lipped governess, she meets an endless catalogue of plump capitalist fuckers (human or not) seizing her up as if she looked like a debutante actress. Non-violence, you see, decent people, that's us. Just getting through the door becomes a problematic of its own. Careful. Diplomatic. Don't make any waves. She doesn't like that.

One night she fights a colorblind demon's cronies in his Central Park penthouse; later, Giles calls and asks if she's enjoying NY. Giles, she says, Giles, old man, I don't need the drugs anymore.



trois

Rome thinks it's in the movies. And it tries so hard that Faith starts to believe it, too. Buffy is brilliantly absent; it's as if she's merged into the stories they tell. They fail to tell stories about them, though, and Faith wishes she could sit up on a bar stool and start narrating: and then Faith turned around and said: you and me, B., we've been done for a long, long time. And the audience would hear the crackling of a black-and-white drama in her voice, frown, and declare that the tale lacks spilt blood. And Faith would slide out of her seat, slip out of the bar and think: this is the part I don't want to tell.

Here she finds Dawn in a good-natured disposition; they have Italian food at her apartment, and laugh for a while at their nonsensical lives. Too bad you're going, Dawn whines, there's no one else around. I'll have to sleep in the kitchen and be all existential again.

Faith is certain that sleeping in kitchens never had an existential aspect for her. Somehow, this knowledge provides her with a prosaic joy she hasn't felt in a very long time. No worries, kid. You'll be just fine.



quatre

She picks the wrong side of town again in Paris; just has to behave like a fucking tourist and trot around St-Germain, ignoring the brief looks that find her lacking. At times her reflection assaults her and she hates herself for feeling, a moment before, a little more blonde and tanned and friendly and Sunnydale-in-Paris-esque. When there is nothing to remind her, she forgets; loses awareness of her body and lets her mind sail: it's being six years old all over again, blind and deaf to ugliness at will.

Another night, another bar, and the sound of a piano reaches her, different somehow. The songs are the saddest she's ever heard; a noisy woman on her right exhales something like Barbara and Brel amidst cigarette smoke. When the musician comes to sit beside her, she knows who it is before turning around. Lorne is glad to see her and tries to talk about Wesley. Faith tells him about new slayers. At some point Lorne mentions that he would've liked to sing some Aznavour, if he'd been able to find himself in the right mood. They talk some more, and Faith fails to understand why he seems to refer to a connection they never had.

Before leaving, Faith says he should sing the stuff anyway. And on the way out she hears: j'ai travaillé/des années/jour et nuit/sans répit²…and thinks, well, yeah, that's what we do. The next step is called: resilience.



cinq

In Moscow she dreams of latitudes, and of a fat demon lounging in an ice bath, telling her importantly that she won't find herself in the East. She bursts out laughing. His chapka wiggles.

Longitudes are harder to apprehend.



six

In Stockholm she follows a demon into the ABSOLUT ICEBAR, and trips on a small silvery Eskimo. Her guy mingles with the crowd and she rubs her arms, cursing her lack of warmer clothes; her Eskimo looks up and says: I have a spare skiing outfit.

It's Oz, guitarist-slash-werewolf from Sunnydale, and he must have cryogen-ized himself, because who the hell doesn't change at all over the course of four years (her own life sentence, really; what with existing within the temporality of bars desperation whales)?

They have strange drinks that taste like potatoespickledherringfreshcrawfish all at once, and warm cloudberries on vanilla ice cream, which sounds like something B. would eat, but turns out funny, like too-dark-honey with lots of seeds.

She keeps the skiing outfit; at the airport (five am, she is a walking jetlag), people discard her as a mad clubber still in the haze of her trashy parties. Yeah, she says to a neighbouring old lady, I am so going to ski in Lower Tadfield, and grins.



sept

In Giles' undisclosed countryside, another neighbouring old lady thinks her a poor dear (Faith the misguided lamb: the irony is overwhelming). For alas, she has no land to call her own – can only close her eyes and keep running.

Or be at home anywhere, Faith thinks, opening a cupboard to an avalanche of hats. Or be at home anywhere.

¹ Ogden Nash.
² I have worked/for years/day and night/relentlessly - Charles Aznavour, Mes emmerdes

Passez l'âme à la machine
buffy the vampire slayer, pg-13; Buffy/Oz, Wishverse


against the concrete steps purple and
yellow crocuses, petal-wrapped cones
waiting to unfold, urging the sun
to follow suit, out Spring. 'Love,'
I shout at mouth's door, 'all bets are off.'

- Louisa Howerow, First Day of Spring

She wakes up in the sickeningly sweet warmth of the setting sun, spread out on the length of a flowery couch that doesn't go well with the rest of the décor.

The curtains are drawn shut; in the reddish light she can make out a plush living-room, all cocoa rugs and plastic-like tropical plants in big pots. Too show-offish for Cleveland. Too cheery for that hellhole – what was it called? Sunnydale. Right.
       
It doesn't make sense that she should feel so hung over when there are no signs of partying on the scene. Classy coffee table magazines, untouched. French windows. The whole place would have a golden fifties look to it, if it weren't for that really ugly couch which seems to be the sentimental legacy of some smelly great-aunt.

She stumbles upon a great mirror lying against the wall, its frame complicatedly ornamental. Squinting at her reflection, she finds the same amount of scars as usual. As she starts to undress and gapes at a weird, half-erased tattoo she doesn't remember getting, the phone rings – a ridiculous fox-trot melody.

She picks it up.

Oz isn't sure he'll like LA any better than he liked Sunnydale. It may be hipper than the old hellmouth, but there are just as many monsters to deal with – be they rock producers or evil-minded lawyers.

Naturally, Devon was thrilled to have him back. The Oz-Man has finally quit playing hero/martyr/last man standing between hell and us all, gentlemen, and wisely goes back to rock 'n' roll. Dingoes Ate My Baby had acquired a certain standing during his absence; Devon could rightfully claim he lived on the good side of town when he offered to share his place until Oz got settled.

Perhaps out of habit, Oz hit the underworld a lot sooner than he had intended to. After some socializing, a few seabreezes and several bribes, he learned quite a lot about the real big fish of the city. Some musical improvisation and a few encores later, he heard the first whispers (or, more accurately, drunken mutterings) of what had become of Buffy Summers' body. Retrieved in Sunnydale, they said. Stored at Wolfram & Hart, they said. God knows what sort of experiments they've been making on a dead Slayer.

Oz had a fairly good idea.

Once she's done the math, Buffy gets pissed. Because if there's one thing she doesn't handle well, it's being used. When her mom, despite her general brilliance, got back at her dad by way of little messages she sent through her daughter, Buffy figured it out quickly enough and was only too happy to bail, leaving a heartfelt letter behind and the plumbing arranged like a César compression.

But when there's stuff to kill, it does feel better.

In this case, LA is full of the guilty. Even if the bastards responsible for this ungodly resurrection may turn out to be human, as Oz warned her, she can always pound on the neighbouring vamps. Or bomb their office. Or get someone to hack into their system – however much less immediately satisfying that last option is likely to be.

It's still daylight when she stomps out of Devon's house. Only three years since she's last been here, and the LA sun feels alien to her eyes.

She doesn't have to endure it for long. This town is as well equipped in sewers as any other she's known; less than an hour later, she's had the warlock Oz recommended remove the symbol Wolfram & Hart put on her as an all-purpose mystical bug.

She gives the guy an ancient dagger which probably has a great history and monetary value (if not fantastic efficiency) as an extra. She won't miss it. Her Watcher never bothered to explain its significance anyway.

Oz is rather surprised to find Buffy on Devon's doorstep come nightfall. As he tried to calm her down, earlier, it seemed she might snap at any moment and simply knock him down if he attempted to stop her from rushing out, like a big dog who doesn't handle well captivity.

Now she sidles in. Asks if he has any decent coffee. Thumbs through Devon's magazines. Once Oz has made some more than decent coffee (capsule stuff, you shouldn't have, can't taste the difference, personally) and offered some foul-smelling, terribly expensive cigarillos (declined), Buffy decides to treat him to a charming grin, for no apparent reason.

A few minutes later, she's climbing in his lap, for no apparent reason either. Not that Oz minds at all.

Let it not be said that Oz does not wonder, afterwards, why Buffy failed to pursue her plans of bloody vengeance upon Wolfram & Hart. Oz does wonder – about many things. He's just not that interested in getting answers.

And when there's word of another Slayer in Florida, she: walks around all day with an uncanny blissful expression, cooks him dinner, goes down on him, spikes his drink, steals his van and leaves in search of the ironically-named Faith.

The next morning, Devon finally comes back, and quickly observes the absence of the (yet again) zebra-striped vehicle.

- Oz, man. The girl stole your fucking van and you're not even a little pissed about it?
- Well, you know, I guess it was time to pass it on. I'm pretty sure she needs it more than me now.

a/n: written for the awesome freeversefic challenge, and beta'd by the wondrous scythia. title adapted from Alain Souchon's L'amour à la machine. thanks to glossing for her amazing Buffy/Oz meta.

Maat
angel, pg-13; Lilah, Wesley


- J'en ay le dueil, toy le mal et douleur.
Se feusse ung povre ydiot et folet,
Encore eusses de t'excuser couleur ;
Si n'as tu soing. Tout t'est ung, bel ou lait.
Ou la teste as plus dure q'un jalet,
Ou mieulx te plaist qu'onneur ceste meschance :
Que respondras a ceste consequence ?
- J'en seray hors quant je trepasseray.
- Dieu ! Quel confort ! Quelle sage eloquence !
 Plus ne t'en dis. - Et je m'en passeray.

– François Villon, Le Débat du Cœur et du Corps de Villon

HEADS

If life is a series of crossroads, then Lilah has probably been on the wrong ride. If she's on a boat, it's the Titanic. If she's on a plane, it's a fucking Concorde. There's beauty, they say, in a perfect straight line ending in the (organized) chaos of a Pollock painting – and it might be true, but Lilah's never been easy on herself, and looking at her own life she sees only the faults: thoughtless rushes, cowardly stalling; the first film of an overexcited music video director.

The catch is that there's no second chance, no growing wiser after a messy first try. But all in all, she never veered off course, and although she met things she didn't expect cycling along on the greenly shadowed sidewalk (now, Wesley on some ancient bicycle would've been quite a sight), sitting comfortably in her limo ride to corporate hell seems like a logical final note.

The good thing about Wolfram & Hart keeping their hold on her is that she doesn't have to let go either. And at least she can hope for a few kinky scenes with Gavin as coat rack.

TAILS

Afterwards, Wesley finds himself standing in a deserted field. The scene is black and white, and there's a signpost in front of him saying PURGATORY in big clean letters.

- So. Would this be a Brecht play?

He waits, expecting something unremarkable. A corny chirping of crickets, the sudden appearance of a jack-in-the-box-like, garrulous guardian of the gate, a violent rain of fish; anything, really – but he seems trapped on the tape of an old mute documentary.

Then there's the unmistakeable crackling sound of a receiver being turned on. As a somehow familiar voice starts calling hello, hello, he spots an antique transistor lying in the grass a few feet away.

- Hello, anyone? PURGATORY, do you copy?
- It's just me in there, says Wesley.
- Well of course it's just you, Wes. They're all about the 'client' here; you get to have a (muffled laughter) PURGATORY of your own.

The whole setting flicks off and on again. Instead of the transistor, there's Faith sitting on a barstool.

- PURGATORY copies five by five, quips Wesley. And you're supposed to mean?
- Just the embodiment of your pending redemption, Wes. It never gets old.
- Interesting. If I may inquire who's yours?
- Think, Wes, Faith laughs, swinging her feet. Faithy's still in the land of the living; not my area of expertise. As for you, the keyword here is pending.
- You seem to forget my, how shall I put it, tragic last stand.
- Come on. Don't fool yourself. Obviously, they're not too big around here – and even if they were, that wouldn't guarantee anything. It's a friggin' administration, meaning papers get lost, you see.

Wesley sees. He's been a little tired of that, lately.

- And here I was, quite innocently hoping to make a clean break for hell.
- Well, it doesn't work that way. Look, I'm sorry –

Everyone's sorry, thinks Wesley, but can't quite hear the rest; the scene distorts itself like translucent goo, and stretches, endlessly.

COIN IN MIDAIR, 0.62 SECONDS BEFORE

Mystical guidebooks everywhere point out that inter-dimensional travelling always looks like hard work for animated bodies, and rightly so. The flesh can rarely withstand being pulled apart and back together in the spinning mess of portals. Souls, however, are a different matter. They have a tendency to pass on quietly and unnoticed, but they do make a sound.

It goes almost unheard, like a signed dollar bill gently crumbling into ashes.