In the Star Wars section, Obi Wan suddenly clutched his head, saying, "I sense a great disturbance in the force."

Qui Gon blushed. "I'm sorry. I know how pinto beans affect me, and I really shouldn't, but..."

"No, no, not that. Though I would appreciate it if you'd fire up the light saber for a minute. No, this is something different. I think..."

In Stanley Kowalski's apartment, Diefenbacher suddenly pricked up his ears, then lifted his muzzle to the ceiling and howled. Stanley, who was sleeping under Fraser's red tunic, peered at the wolf blearily. "What's got into that animal now?"

Fraser, who was wearing the tunic at the time, groaned, "Oh dear."

In the Grecian section of the universe Ares suddenly sat up in bed, listening intently. He thought the roof overhead away, and studied the sky. Then he screamed in angry frustration.

Joxer sighed in resignation and rolled over on his stomach.

"Are you sure, Jim?"

"I told you, Blair. I just kicked the hearing up to in-fucking-credible level, and it wasn't all that hard to zero in on her."

"So what's happening now?"

"Hang on. Clothes rustling." His eyes widened. "Uh oh. That was a zipper. A creaking sound..." Jim fell silent. His eyes got wide. "Oh boy."

"Jim, what's happening? Jim? Aw, shit! Don't zone on me now! I want details!"

Back in Sunnydale, the Scooby Gang and assorted vampires watched as blue lightening laced across the sky.

Xander started stomping in circles, swearing. "Xander, why are you so pissed?" Willow asked. "It's just a quickening."

Harris glared. "Oh year? Okay, that lightening appears when... what? Huh? It appears when an immortal takes a head, right?"

"Ri-ight..."

"Angelus," Xander looked at him. "You're up on archaic terminology as it applies to the dirtier deeds. Can you give me some synonyms for virginity?"

The dark vampire frowned in concentration. He had a reputation to uphold here. "Lesse... hymen, cherry, maidenhood, maidenhea..." He trailed off. "Maidenhead?"

Xander Harris shook his fist at the sky, howling to the heavens. "Curse you, McCleod!"

Part 2

Willow hugged Xander. "Aw, Xan. Be optimistic. Maybe he just killed her. A needle and thread, a few spells, she'll be good as new."

"Like I told Spike, don't try to cheer me up. Nope, Duncan got to her first. How?! I guess experience counts for something, but hell... Okay, he's got about 400 years, but Angel has 250, and Methos has 5000."

Angel grumbled, "Well, there goes my plan to lobby for access based on seniority."

"Screw diplomacy," said Angelus. "I say you and me go kick his ass and take her."

"Angelus? The dude carries a sword, hello?"

"Oh, yeah. Spike, how about going and distracting him for Daddy?" Spike flipped him the bird. "Kids."

Giles patted Xander on the back. "Don't be sad, Harris. Remember what you told her the first time you talked to her. This is only her first devirginizing."

Xander perked up. "Yeah! I forgot about that. She should renew pretty soon. Crap, I gotta get ready." He bustled off busily.

Spike hurried after him, leaving the others buzzing together. "Whatterya after, mate? Rubbers?"

Xander glanced at him disdainfully. "You know darn good and well she doesn't allow any STDs around here, and condoms are only used for erotic effect. No, I'm going for bait."

This interested Spike. "Yeah? Wha's that? Cash? Jewelry? Booze?"

Xander snorted. "Amateur. No. I've made a study of our girl's obsessions." He grinned mischievously.

Spike and Xander approached the little cabin. "Ya sure this is it, 'arris?"

"It's the only Highlands cottage in this universe." He walked up to the door and tried it. "Locked, dammit." He pounded. No response. He pounded again.

A voice with a Scottish accent yelled from inside. "Go away. I'm busy." (giggle) "Okay. We're busy."

Xander swore and pounded all the harder. "I know you're in there, Scribe. Come on out."

"That you, Xander?"

"Yeah, open up, and open up."

"Boy, you've got some nerve." (snort-giggle)("You need a shave.") "If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't be in this situation."

"Thank you, Harris!" the male voice caroled. "Ooo, there's a spot I haven't explored yet!"

(delighted shriek)

"You leave me no choice." He opened a paper bag and pulled out a brightly colored cardboard box. Clearing his throat, he said loudly. "I have Pop Tarts!"

There was sudden silence in the cabin. Then whispers. ('Where are you going?' 'He said Pop Tarts.' 'Get back in bed.' 'I'm warning you, Duncan, it isn't safe to get between me and pastry.' 'Well, put something on.' 'Oh, all right!')

The door opened. Scribe stood in the doorway, hands on hips. She was wearing a very large old fashioned man's white shirt, with long, flowing sleeves, and lace down the front. And that was pretty much it. But since it came down almost to her knees, she was relatively decently covered. "You said Pop Tarts?"

"Uhhhhhh... yeah. Did you realize that's a thin shirt, and you have a light behind you?"

She looked down. "Well, slap a crown on my head and call me Lady Di. Let's hope there are no paparazzi around. What kind of Pop Tarts?"

He wiggled the box enticingly. "Strawberry, with frosting and sprinkles."

Her eyes got wide. "Oooo..." She reached for them, but he pulled them back. She frowned, and stamped her foot, which did very interesting things to the front of the shirt. "Xander!"

He took a step back, and offered the box again. She held on to the door frame and leaned out, stretching toward the box, but she couldn't quite reach. "Xander, you snot! Give me those!" She swiped, and her fingertips skimmed the cardboard.

Spike was watching this with fascination. "Back up, 'arris. I almos' got a look down 'er front that time!"

Xander moved back a half step. Scribe started to step out of the doorway, and Spike and Xander leaned forward. She stopped, eyeing them shrewdly. She deliberately unbuttoned one more button, hitched the hem of the shirt up another inch, lowered her eyelashes, then looked up at him through them. "Xaaaander. C'mere, sweetie."

Xander's eyes started to glaze over. "Okay." He started forward.

Spike grabbed his arm. "Don' do it, mate! 'old firm, ya almos' gotter."

Scribe shot a nasty glance at Spike. "Aw, Xan, honey. You know I've just been playing hard to get. I'm sorry, pookie. After all, you were my first fan fiction character, and you never forget your first."

"Speaking of which." Duncan McCleod, wrapped in a kilt (and that's about it) came up behind her. "You lot clear off and quit distracting my lady."

Scribe glanced at him in surprise. "Lady? Who the hell have you been listening to? Go back to bed, my sweet little haggis." Under her breath she hissed, "You're a stud, Dunc, but I need a sugar fix in the worst way."

"I told you, I have apples in there."

"If you say that again, I'll bite you. And not like you like to be bitten. I said sugar. Great honking amounts of it. That means either Pop Tarts or snack cakes. Now be quiet, I almost had him." She turned a melting gaze on the teenager, and once again her voice held more sugar than the box of toaster pastries. "Pleeeease, sugar buns? For me?" She licked her lips.

"Okay." Xander started forward again.

This time Spike grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. "Don' you fuckin' do it, man! Remember the library. Ya were on top of 'er, mate, an' she got away! Ya were right on top of 'er, between the friggin' legs, with 'er wigglin' an' squirmin', all warm an' soft, an ya knew that she was just gonna scream when ya..."

"Shit, Spike!" Xander moaned. "Do you want me to come in my pants again?"

"Sorry, mate." He patted Xander on the shoulder. "Got ahold of yerself?"

"Not if I can get ahold of her." He squared his shoulders, and took another step back. "Uh uh, Scribe. You want these, you gotta come get them."

He opened the box and took out a foil package. He crinkled the shiny paper. Scribe twisted her hands in the shirt, raising the hem another couple of inches. Spike whistled, and started to wiggle a hand down the front of his jeans, which were suddenly about two sizes too small. Duncan scowled. "Hey! Stop that. No jerking off looking at my woman." Spike flipped him the bird with his free hand. "That does it." Duncan reached back into the cabin and came up with his sword.

"Bloody 'ell!" Spike yelped, and took off, a pissed Highlander in hot pursuit.

"Alone at last." Xander ripped open the package, and took out the Pop Tarts. "Look, Scribe! Nummy, nummy." She took a cautious step out of the cabin, and he backed up. "Heeeere, Scribe." He made kissing noises.

"Fuck. It's hell, being an addict." she mumbled. She marched over to Xander and snatched the first Pop Tart out of his hand, took a huge bite, and groaned in bliss. As she chewed, she eyed him. Finishing the first Pop Tart in record time, she held out her hand expectantly for the second one.

"It's gonna cost ya."

"Oh, come on, Harris. As hooked as I am, I still won't come across for a Pop Tart. That would take at least a pound and a half of Godiva chocolates. In advance."

"Nah. How about just one really good, sloppy, raunchy kiss?"

"Fair enough. Pop Tart first." He handed it over, and she devoured it. "Okay. One lip lock, coming up."

She stepped up to him, wrapped her arms around him, and planted her lips on his. Xander opened his mouth eagerly. She was as good as her word. Xander's temperature, along with certain other things, started to rise.

Suddenly there was an odd sound. It was something along the lines of wind chimes, or a good run on a xylophone. Scribe felt a tingle, rather like static electricity, run all over her body. She jumped back from Xander in alarm as a multicolored shimmer passed over her body. "Shit! Not again! "If ya want a woman in space, get Sally Ride, dammit!"

"No, no, it's not a transporter."

"Then what is it?"

"You just renewed".

"What? My license is good for another two years."

"No, your virginity. You just renewed."

She looked down at herself in astonishment. "Get the fuck out of town."

"Happens to me all the time."

"I'm not sure I'm happy about that. I mean, it was great and all, but we are talking some major discomfort there for a couple of minutes. Besides, how do you know it works the same way for me?"

He reached for her. "Come here, and I'll prove it to you."

She pulled back and gave him a saucy look. "You can't do that while you're wearing your pants." (Pause) "Well, not comfortably, anyway."

"Easily taken care of." He stripped off his jeans. "And now, my tempting little creatress..."

She tripped him. While he was down, she stepped quickly into the jeans. "You'll never learn, will you? Cute knees." Snatching up the Pop Tarts box, she trotted off.

"Scribe!" he screamed, scrambling to his feet and taking after her. "When I catch you, I'm going to screw you so hard that you'll think you've fallen into the hands of the IRS!"

Part 3

"Lessee, was it Sam Goldwyn who said, It's like deja vu, all over again.?"

Scribe fled through the heather, box of Pop Tarts clutched to her bosom, horny teenage male in hot pursuit. *Why do I keep thinking I hear Stravinsky's 'Rite of Spring' playing in the background? How on earth did that child get so lecherous?*

"Lay off, Xander! You're underage! I'd get in Dutch with the feds!"

"Nuh uh! I'm seventeen, I'm legal, and I'm horny"

They had reached the edge of town, and Scribe sprinted for the police station. "You're also in a state of undress! Yo! cops! Streaker! Indecent exposure! TEENAGE BOY!"

The last yell did it. Police officers of all descriptions left stake outs, undercover operations, stings, speed traps, black ops, accident investigations, and donut shops to converge on one Xander Harris, known teenage male. This being fanfiction, the protesting boy was immediately carted off for a thorough strip and body cavity search.

Scribe sighed. "Sometimes I almost hate myself. Almost." She wandered over to a bus stop bench and sat down, happily peering into her box of Pop Tarts.

She eyed the young man sitting next to her. Kind of cute, except for that dorky haircut. The white suit was kind of nice. He was holding a large, fancy cardboard box on his lap. He looked at her. "Hi."

"Hello." There was enough southern drawl in that one word to give an entire platoon of Bubbas an inferiority complex. "Mah name's Forrest. Forrest Gump."

"Of course it is." *Safe. He doesn't know what to do with girls. I can't believe I actually wrote a PWP after I saw that movie, but Jennie was such a nitbrain...* "How's it goin', Forrest?"

"Okay."

"Glad to hear it." She eyed the box. "Oooo, Go-diva!"

"Yeah." Forrest peered at the box. "There's a picture of a nekkid lady on this here box."

"So there is. She must be pretty forgetful, huh?"

"Pretty much, I reckon."

"Say, Forrest. Wanna trade some candy for some Pop Tarts?"

He thought. And thought. And thought. *If I had a watch, I'd check it right about now.*

"Okay." He opened the box. She handed him a foil pack *Still one left. My stash!*, then selected a candy. "Oh, look a teeny, tiny shrimp."

"I don't think that's got shrimps inside. Bubba nevah mentioned chocolate covered shrimps."

"I can almost promise you that someone, somewhere has tried it." She popped it in her mouth and chewed. "Nope. Praline creme. Now, lesse... Hm. A feather." She bit. "Yum. Coffee liqueur."

"Say." He was eating a Pop Tart and staring at her. "Did you know that you look an awful lot like Jennie Curan?"

Scribe winced. "No, I don't. Trust me." She scooped a handful of chocolates into the near empty box, eating another one. Her jaws stuck together. *Damn, that's some strong caramel!*

Forrest finished the Pop Tart. "I really think you do." He started on the second Pop Tart.

"Nuh uh." *Damn, I gotta get my teeth loose. Note to self: don't eat the square ones unless you have a tire iron handy.* The caramel finally started to melt and loosen. "Mm nuh annin i'ennie." *Translation: I'm not anything like Jennie.*

He looked at her slyly. "Jennie, that is you, i'n't it?"

(Teeth separated) *Finally!* "I am not Jennie! Get a life."

"Mah mama always said, life is like a box of chocolates, ya never know what you're gonna get."

Strong arms suddenly went around Scribe, who squeaked like Minnie Mouse being goosed. Someone said, "And Scribe is like a Pop Tart: hot, sweet, and flaky, and I know exactly what I am going to get!"

Forrest gaped, and said softy, "Santy Claus?"

Scribe sighed, looking down at the red serge clad arms that were snugly holding her own arms trapped against her sides. "No. Constable Benton Fraiser. Hi, Benny. That last one wasn't my fault. I was hijacked. I was Scribe-napped. I was author-abducted."

"You were fleeing the scene." He picked her up. "Excuse us, sir."

"Hey! Don't grab her!" Forrest jumped up and socked Fraiser in the jaw. That might not have been enough to loosen his hold, normally, but he did get a little off balance. Diefenbacher, apparently getting in touch with his inner cat, managed to wind himself between Fraiser's legs, tripping him. Scribe hit the ground with legs already in motion.

Behind her she heard Forrest yelling, "Run, Jennie! Run!"

"I'm not Jennie!" she screamed. "But thank you kindly!"

Benton was up and after her in a flash. "Oh, come on, Scribe! I am French-Canadian. Quit running, and I promise to be more French than Canadian."

*Oh, geez, I'm not gonna stay ahead long, not with those legs of his! Gotta get out of reach.*

She spotted a sturdy looking tree growing beside a two story house. One of the upper windows was open, and a substantial branch went right up to it. She started to climb without hesitation. She called back, "I'm going in, Fraiser! If you follow me, it will be breaking and entering!"

He started up after her. "On the contrary. This is hot pursuit. Oh boy, am I hot. I do hope that window leads to a bedroom."

Scribe reached the window and swung a leg inside. Dawson Leery sighed, "Look, Joey, I told you I wasn't..." He saw Scribe and dropped the book he was reading. "All right!"

"Sheesh!" She pointed. "Last time I watched the series, you were still a virgin."

"That can be taken care of." He hopped off the bed. "Wait, while I set up the video camera. 'Dawson's First Time'. Has a catchy ring to it, dontcha think?"

Scribe glanced back, then scrambled the rest of the way through the window and ran for the door. "Why don't you discuss it with the Mountie?"

Scribe pelted down the stair and out the back door, into the woods. *Nature, nature, nature...I hate fricken' nature!* There was a swishing sound in the trees above her. She skidded to a halt, looking around warily. "So help me, if that's the Millennium Falcon... I am so not up to dodging Wookies and Ewoks! YEEP!"

The yeep was occasioned by her being suddenly jerked off her feet and swung through the air up into the trees. She found herself on a branch, clinging to a tree trunk, next to a very large man in a very small loincloth. "Oh, terrific! One brief obsession with Edgar Rice Burroughs way back in junior high, and I end up being nabbed by Tarzan! Which version are you? Johnny Weismuller? Christopher Lambert?"

"You talk funny, fella."

She looked closer. "Ah. Brendan Fraiser type. Sorry, George, I mistook you for someone else."

"That okay. Wanna play treehouse?"

"Uh, no."

"Hunt the Peanut?"

"Definitely not. Where's Ursula?"

"Who cares?" He squeezed her bosom. "You got bigger bumps! Wanna make hot monkey love?"

"I'm outta here." She started to climb down.

"No, wait!" George grabbed her around the waist again, and took hold of a vine. "George take you to romantic jungle love nest."

She stiffened desperately. "Oh, please don't swing with me!"

"Hey, George like swinging." He took off.

"Watch out for that..." (smash)"...tree. Ow. Well, hey, thanks for getting between me and the trunk, George. George? Okay, you just rest. Bye."

Scribe looked around, trying to imagine which direction would lead her to something approximating civilization. *Oh, well.* She started to point. "North, South, East, West. Which way will I find some rest? West, South, North, East. Give me a head start, at least.' And she trotted off into the greenery.

Part 4

As Scribe pushed her way through the shrubbery, she sang, "I love to go a-wanderinnnng among the hills so greeeen... not! When I get back home, the closest I want to come to nature is a National Geographic Special and a terrarium."

She came to a clearing. There was a rather comfortable looking camp set up there. There was a pot of something delicious smelling bubbling over the fire that was being tended by a small blonde woman. Scribe approached cautiously. The woman glanced up, and gave her a bright smile. "Hi."

"Hello." *No lunges. Maybe I can rest for awhile here.* (sniiiiiiff) "Something smells awful good." *Woman cannot live by Pop Tarts alone. I mean, I could try, but I don't have any more Pop Tarts right now.*

"Sit down and have a bite."

"Thanks." Scribe sat down near the fire, and the woman dipped up a bowl and handed it to her. She took a bite. "Ummm. This is terrific."

"Thanks. It's the herbs that make all the difference. I keep telling Xena that."

"Xena? Oh. Uh, Gabrielle, right?" She nodded. "Did I write anything with you?"

"Valentine's day challenge."

"Oh, yeah, right. The Godiva chocolates."

"Thank you for that."

"Don't mention it." She ate more stew. "Wouldn't happen to have any of them left, would you?"

"Fraid not."

"Oh, well." She scraped the bowl clean. "That was nummy. Thanks ever so."

"You're welcome. It wasn't anything special. Although that was the biggest rabbit I've ever seen."

Scribe winced. "Rabbit?"

"Yeah. And I've never encountered one who talked, either."

Scribe paled. "Talked?"

"Yeah. Kept babbling about a left turn and some place called Alberquerquie."

Scribe turned green. She peered into the pot and whispered, "Bugs?"

"No, I don't think so. I kept a lid on it..."

"Excuse me." Scribe started for the bushes, a hand over her mouth.

Gabrielle murmured. "I guess it's a good thing I didn't tell her about that black duck that kept saying I was despicable."

Scribe returned a few moments later. "Do you have anything that will get the taste of second hand rabbit stew out of my mouth?"

"Sure." Gabrielle passed her a wineskin.

Scribe eyed it dubiously. "How do I operate this thing?"

"Just tilt it up, open your mouth, and let gravity do the rest." Scribe followed directions, and ended up with a hefty splash of wine trickling off her chin and down her cleavage. She looked at Gabrielle. "Or is that open your mouth, then tilt it and let gravity do the rest? Here, let me clean that up for you." She leaned over and began licking the wine off Scribe's neck.

Scribe leaned back. "What, you never heard of Wet Naps? Paper Towels? Handi Wipes?"

"I prefer the natural methods." Scribe had leaned so far back that she fell over, and Gabrielle proceeded to crawl over her.

"Oof! Wait a minute, get off... What about Xena?"

Gabrielle paused, and shoved a rose into Scribe's hand. "Xena doesn't understand romance."

Scribe smacked her in the face with the rose. "Stop it! I'm not that kind of a girl."

"You will be when I get through with you."

"What is this? 'Cure the Heterosexual Week'? Don't you think that the concept of being able to 'convert' someone from one sexual orientation to another is not only flawed, but downright insulting?"

"No. I'm just horny."

"Shit. You're a Bard, you're supposed to delight in intellectual and philosophical conversations."

"Sure. After sex."

"Ahem!"

'Oh, crap." Gabrielle cleared her throat, and said loudly. "Okay, Zeen, I got her for you!"

"Nice try, Gabby." Gabrielle was lifted bodily off Scribe. "Were you going to save me any?"

"Xena, I'm hurt that you'd even suggest that."

"Uh huh."

Scribe turned over on her stomach and started to quietly crawl away.

"No, really. I was just... um... getting her warmed up for you."

"Uh huh." A booted foot came down firmly on Scribe's backside, holding her to the ground. She sighed, and started to drum her fingers on the grass.

"Well... she made me do it. After all, she wrote me this way, and I can't be expected to go against my author given instincts..."

"I haven't heard so much bullshit since the last time Slick Willie tried to weasel out of questions about Monica." Scribe tossed a disdainful glance over her shoulder. "Why don't you just tell her that Cupid shot your ass? Simple, believable in this fandom, gets you off the hook, and hard to disprove."

"Wow. That's why you're the creator. Yeah. What she said."

"Oh, all right, then."

Scribe was hauled to her feet. "So, how's Ares?"

"Pissed."

"Well, he's the God of War. That's his natural state."

"No, I mean more pissed than usual."

Xena reached into Scribe's shirt and began to rummage around. Scribe looked down at Xena's hand, then looked at Gabrielle. "Boy, you weren't kidding when you said she didn't understand romance. Stop that!" She slapped Xena's hand.

"All right." She started to try to shove her hand down the front of Scribe's (Oh, alright, technically they were Xander's) blue jeans.

"For heaven's sake!" Scribe caught her wrist and arrested her progress a few inches from ground zero. "Geez, doesn't anyone in this universe ask?!"

Xena paused. "Is that all it takes?"

"You could try. And do it with your hand out of my pants."

"Okay." Xena removed her hand, looked at Scribe keenly, and said, "Ya wanna?"

Scribe rolled her eyes. "You know, the world has not heard anything that seductive since the heyday of disco. Try again."

"Ya wanna, please?"

(Insert absolutely huge sigh here.) "Gabrielle, you're a bard. Could you show her a little of what I mean?"

"Sure. Scribe..."

"No, look at her when you do it. That'll give her a better understanding."

"Alrighty." Gabrielle gazed at Xena soulfully. "Scribe, you are my sun, my moon, my morning, my noon, my dark, sacred night. You light up my life. I want to kiss you like there's no tomorrow, love you till the end of time. Your face entices, your breasts allure, your butt is poetry in motion..."

Xena's grip on Scribe began to slacken. *Uh huh. Keep goin', Gabby.*

"You scamper through my fantasies like a wood nymph on crystal meth. Your mouth is a ripe pomegranite, and I want to suck the seeds right out of you..."

Scribe gently pried Xena's fingers loose. She didn't notice. Neither did Gabrielle.

"I want to wrap you around me like a living poncho. Cover me, oh blushing maiden... well, almost maiden...like a set of Martha Stewart's finest designer sheets..."

Scribe crept quietly toward the bushes. Xena stared at Gabrielle, mouth slightly open.

"Come to me, my luscious little Pop Tart, and I will toast you till your filling is sweet and bubbly..."

*Oh, cripes. Does she get much action with lines like that?*

"In short, let me rock your world, little red neck girl."

Scribe was out of the clearing by now. Behind her she heard Xena say, "You sure do talk purty." There was a squawk.

*Hm, I guess she does.*

Part 5

*Okay, let's see...I seem to be back in ancient Greece again. Just what I need, land of horny people with super powers.* Crash! (flash of blue fire)

"Scribe!"

"Shit! Make that 'land of horny people with super powers whom I have already pissed off.' Hi Ares. Uh, Xena said you're a wee bit miffed..." He grabbed her by the shirt front and waistband and lifted her off the ground, "...and I guess she wasn't exaggerating. Have you looked into a twelve step anger management program? All that stress is bad for you, man. Maybe if you gave up caffeine..."

Blink, and they weren't in the forest any more. They were in some ancient style room, lots of marble and tapestries and torches. And a bed. Lots and lots and lots of bed. At least an acre of it. *Whoooooa, dear. I get the feeling there ain't a hell of a lot of sleeping goes on in that thing.*

"Wow, love what you've done with the place. Sorta Gothic Martha Stewart. Say, do you have a powder room around here?"

"No you don't. I know what you pulled with Ellison and Sandburg. Number nineteen on Giles' list, disappearing through an intra dimensional passage."

"This isn't fair. It's like the rival team stealing their opponent's play book before the Superbowl."

"Tough. We're gonna skirmish, and I expect to keep your back field in motion waaaay into overtime."

Flash!

*Okay, logically speaking, I suppose that the bed can't actually be an acre square, because that would make it damn hard for these silver chains attached to my wrists and ankles to stretch to the far corners. At least he left my clothes on.*

Flash

Ares was lying beside her. "I prefer to remove them the old fashioned way. Either by cutting them off, or by the pure, simple method of ripping."

"Look, you shouldn't do that. Neither of these things are actually mine. Duncan and Xander will be major ticked if you screw up their clothes."

"Wow, you know, that worries me almost as much as the possibility of, say, a fly attacking me. Now, are you ready to go for the record for most assorted consecutive virginities lost in one session?"

"What happens if I answer 'no'?"

He thought. "Pretty much the same thing that happens if you answer yes." He started to crawl on top of her.

"One thing. Who's starting wars while you're busy?"

He hesitated, frowning indecisively. "Ooo... um... Shit. You're right." He sighed, and rolled off her. "If I neglect my duties, Dad will have my guts for garters. Literally. And he might take you away. So I'd better make arrangements for a substitute. I'll go get Strife to take over for the next couple of decades."

Flash.

"Decades? Oh, cripes!"

Joxer entered the room. "Ares, sweetie? I heard a rumor that Scribe was wandering around somewhere in the area, and I thought that you..." He caught sight of the fan fiction author, spread eagle on the bed, and blinked, rubbing his eyes. "Oh, my."

"Joxer! Boy, am I glad to see you! Look, here's your big opportunity to be a hero. Get me loose."

He frowned at her. "Do you have any idea how sore my butt is?"

"Oh. Um. Sorry?"

"Apology accepted."

"Great! Now if you'd just undo these things...Why are you shaking your head?'

"Have you got any concept of what he'd do to me if I let you go? Besides, he'll want to break for a snack or something eventually." Joxer grinned. "And I'll be waiting."

"So, you're not gonna turn me loose?"

"Turn you loose? Hell, I'm going to go make popcorn.' He left.

"Opportunist!" she yelled. She jerked on the chains again. "Rassen frassen marda rat crumblebum." She paused. *Whoa, someone must've turned on the censor option for a minute.* "Poodle Piss! Ah, that's better." She lifted her voice. "Look! I want a coincidence, and I want it right now!"

Autolycus crept into the room, and spotted Scribe. "Hey! Fancy meeting you here. Who would have believed it?"

"No one but hardened fan fiction readers and writers. How 'bout turning me loose, oh King of Thieves?"

"Ooooh, I don't know about that. That is Ares' bed you're chained to. I mean, if it was Cupid's, maybe. But Ares?"

"C'mon." She rattled the chains. "Look! Pure silver. And think about the stories you can tell about this. Sneaking me out practically under his nose! Wow, people will buy you so many drinks in the taverns that you won't need to be embalmed when you die."

"I don't know..."

She sighed dramatically. "Oh, that's all right. I don't know why I asked. I mean, far be it from me to push you into anything that would destroy your reputation."

He frowned. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Never mind. I mean, after all... these chains were forged by a god. There's no chance that a mere mortal... even the King of Thieves, could open them. No, you're much wiser not to even attempt something that you have absolutely no chance of accomplishing. I'll tell everyone that... you considered it too easy! Yeah, that's the ticket. You didn't think it was enough of a challenge..." She let her voice die away dubiously.

He growled. "I'll show you challenge!" He pulled a small case out of his tunic, and opened it to reveal a selection of lock picks. "Let's see..." He peered at the shackles. "I believe I'll start with a 7A."

Scribe was just grateful that Ares seemed to want all the bells and whistles that went with bondage, and had made the chain cuffs standard. He could have just made them a solid piece of metal that would have had to have been power blinked away.

Autolycus had to switch to a Double X, then a Twizzler, before there was a click, and he unsnapped the first cuff. "Mere mortal, hah?" (click) "Destroy my reputation, ho?" (click) "No chance, heh?" (click)

(click)

"Huh?"

Autolycus looked down at the silver chain that was cuffed to his wrist. (click) While he was pondering his new bracelet, he received a matching one around one ankle. He looked up to see Scribe crawling off the bed, clutching his lock pick. "HEY!"

She backed toward the door. "Look, I really am sorry about this, but the marathon just isn't my event in the Sexual Olympics, and if he has something to distract him, I'll have a little better chance of getting away. You're a doll, and you even look good in the other fanfic with that chainsaw prosthesis, but I really gotta go..."

She snuck out, and found herself confronted with a long hall. Footsteps were approaching, and she almost panicked. *Get a grip, Scribe, or someone else will get a grip for you... or is that on you? If it was Ares, he'd have just popped right back on in, wouldn't he? Yup. I probably would have found myself in full congress before I realized the dude had returned. Must be The Mighty One. Much as I'd like to kick his scrawny butt, I don't have time to dally, so...*

She ducked behind one of the thousands of convenient hanging tapestries that seem to litter historic fan fiction *Almost as many as there are air shafts in contemporary, and just as useful for eavesdropping.* Joxer strolled past carrying a large bowl of buttered popcorn, and she resisted the urge to trip him and snatch a mouthful before taking off.

He entered the bed chamber, and she heard Autolycus say, "Joxer! Buddy, boy I'm glad it's you. I... uh... seem to be in a bit of an awkward situation, here."

Joxer's voice answered. "Don't tell me, let me guess. Fan fiction author?"

"Uh huh."

"Cute, but devious?"

"Almost as cute as me, and twice as devious."

"Hm. Well, at least this time it's not my fault."

"Jox, be a pal and hand me that set of lock picks, wouldya?"

"Ooooh, I don't think soooo."

"Why not?"

"Hey, The Big Guy is gonna be back soon. He's gonna be randy, and he's gonna be pissed when he finds out she escaped again. And, like I told Scribe, I done my turn. Nope, I'll just have a seat over here..." (Crunch crunch crunch) "Want some popcorn? You might as well, you probably won't have any time to eat for awhile." (snicker) "Well, that's not entirely true, but if you're thinking about food..."

(ratttlerattlerattlerattlerattle)

"Besides, you are really cute..."

(rustle)

"Stop that!"

Scribe tiptoed down the hall and outside. *Now, I just gotta make it off Mount Olympus without running into anymore gods, goddesses, demi-gods, or godlings. Man, if I remember the Herc and Xenaverse, the place is crawling with 'em. Worse than teenyboppers at a local mall.*

While heading down hill, she spotted a thick fog ahead. She hesitated. *No telling what's lurking in there.* She glanced back up the hill.

There was a flash of blue fire behind her, radiating from the top of Ares' abode.

"Again?"

"Right." She plunged into the fog...

Part 6

*Whoa, this is a real pea souper.* Scribe groped her way along carefully. Then, she just groped. Because she'd accidentally run into someone. She couldn't make out who it was, though. "Let's see... cap with flaps." (touch)"Curved pipe." (feel) "Tweeds." She reached a little lower. (grope) "Uh oh." She let go. "Um, sorry about that."

From the fog an English accented voice said, "Quite all right, my dear. Now then, shall we proceed with the Case of the Vanishing Virginity?"

Scribe quickly whipped his hat sideways, and the earflap obscured his vision. As she slipped off into the fog, she said, "Nah. How about The Frustrating Affair of the Out-of-Reach Author?"

Behind her came the cry. "Watson, quick! The game is afoot!"

She hollered over her shoulder, "Egotist! You might be game, but that dang sure wasn't a foot."

She finally emerged from the fog. True to fan fiction logic (uh... illogic) she came out at the edge of what appeared to be a city park in a large urban area.

*O-kay. Which city am I in now? Do I deal with Mounties, or vampires, or Sentinels, oh my? I have got to sit down for a minute, but I need to be off the street for that. Where's a good place to hide out?*

There was a brightly lit movie theater up the block, and she went there and perused the marquee. *Night of the Return of the Revenge of the Son of the Evil Living Dead Chainsaw Horror Movie Buff Hottie Cheerleaders. Starring Julia Roberts. Sounds like a winner.*

She dug through the pockets of Xander's jeans, and came up with a ten. *Crap. Not enough for a ticket and supplies. And I really need popcorn after getting a whiff of that stuff Joxer had made up.*

She went to the ticket booth. A nondescript guy was working at the window. She said, "Listen, I need to get in to see the movie, but I'm pretty broke. Howza bout finding me perky and irresistible, and sneaking me into the show as a hopeless gesture of timid infatuation?"

"Okay." He motioned her inside.

*One advantage to being in a MarySue universe: occasionally the irresistibility can work for you.*

At the concession stand, she bought a large tub of buttered popcorn When did they do away with medium? Now it's small, large, family, and Oh, my God! You're going to eat all that?* and a Megaschooner cup of Coke, extra ice.

The theater was half empty when she went in, and she found a seat in her favorite spot: middle center, two thirds back, and no one else on that row. She had a clear view of the screen, and was feeling rather pleased with the world.

The coming attractions were interesting. They were coming out with a movie of her adventures in her MarySue universe, to be called ...what you wish for... *Catchy title. Gotta remember that.* It was to star Julia Roberts, as Scribe. Scribe sprayed soda.

The movie started. She quickly lost count of breasts and flying body parts. *Joe Bob Briggs would be pleased.*

About halfway through the movie, someone came and sat down beside her. A very pale hand drifted over and settled on her knee. She shoved it off and moved over a seat. After a minute, the other person moved also. This time the hand settled on her thigh. Irritated, she looked over at them.

Uh-oh. They were wearing some sort of black hooded robe and a long, white melted-twisty ghost face mask. Yeah, that's right. Someone out there was writing either Scream or Scary Movie fanfic. "Let me guess. You want to stab me, but not with a big ol' knife, right?"

Did you know that those fucking masks can grin?!

Well, when she had started going to the movies alone, her Mom had told her how to deal with situations like this, so she took the advice. She took a deep breath. "Get your hand off my titty!" and she dumped the rest of her Coke in his lap.

It seemed that the masks could also turn blue.

She left him doubled over, and was pursued by the sound of castanets clicking. She realized as she hit the exit that it was his teeth chattering. *God bless Mom. She gets it right, sometimes. Dammit, I wish I'd thought to bring the rest of my popcorn with me.* She rubbed her arms. *And when the hell did it get cold again? Crap, I should have snatched Dawson’s sneakers on the way through his room. He looked like he had big enough feet for them to fit me.* She paused suddenly. *Wait a minute, what was that old wives tale about men with big feet? Hmm... No, I think I'd best not speculate on that.*

Parked at the curb up ahead, she noticed a small, battered car, windows steamed up. As she approached, the passenger window rolled down a little. A hand extended. It was holding a Pop Tart.

*Oh, I shouldn't do this. I really shouldn't do this.* She sidled closer, and paused again. The hand jiggled the Pop Tart enticingly. *If Xander found out about my Pop Tart habit, anyone could know by now.* She inched forward. *Then again, it could just be someone sitting in a parked car, on a dark street, eating Pop Tarts, and idly waving one out the window. Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Scribe.*

She was close to the car now. A second hand extended, and the finger crooked in a summoning motion, then was withdrawn. *Maybe the Salvation Army decided to pass out breakfast items instead of sandwiches.* She stretched her neck and sniffed. *Hey, I think that's raspberry!*

She reached slowly toward the frosted square. The second hand flashed out, and there was a (click). She found herself clutching a Pop Tart, with a handcuff snapped around her wrist.

The car window rolled down the rest of the way, and she saw who the other cuff was attached to. "Hi, Scribe."

"Pretty sneaky, Sandburg."

"This is the kettle, listening to the pot talk. How about you? It wasn't nice, sneaking off like that."

"Pot to kettle: not nice? I had three lust crazed law enforcement officers getting ready to wear my butt out. I was entirely justified."

"Yeah, well, you owe me. Jim has been impossible to live with. By the way, I guess I should warn you. Mulder's started an X file on you."

"Oh, cripes. He'll have the Lone Gunmen down on me, and those guys work as a team."

"No need to worry about that now. Get in. We're going back to the apartment." "How'm I supposed to do that, Einstein? You handcuffed me through the window."

"Uh..."

"Unlock 'em so I can climb inside."

"Oh yeah, fat chance of that. You have two choices. You can either walk beside the car, and I'll drive real slow, or you can climb in through the window."

"You can't drive while you're stretched out over here, cuffed to me."

"Wanna bet? This is fan fiction, and I am flexible in more ways than you could possibly imagine."

"I don't think I wanna know about that. Okay, push over." She clambered through the car window and sat down. Blair started the car and drove off. "Where's Jim?"

"Off hunting for you. I expect his Sentinel senses will pick up my increased heart rate, and he'll come back to the apartment soon. In any case, I ain't waitin'. You're too darn slippery."

"Oh, I really think you should wait. I mean, that would be the polite thing to do."

(Loud raspberry buzz from Blair) *Say that's a pretty agile tongue he... Stop it, Scribe! Geez, dirty old woman!) "How rude."

"Severe horniness will do that to a person. Consider this doing a favor for all the etiquette minded people in the world. Screw me, and I promise to go right out and begin opening door, holding chairs, covering my mouth when I yawn, and saying 'Excuse me' when I burp or fart."

"Gosh, when you hold forth the hope of making the world a better place through my own humble efforts... Forget it."

They stopped in front of the apartment building, and Blair dragged her out. "Fine. So you're selfish. I love you anyway."

"Love?"

"Love, want, need, lust, hump... one of those four letter words. Semantics, semantics." He had her up the steps.

That same little old lady who'd directed her to the Ellison-Sandburg apartment in the first place was coming out again. She smiled at them brightly and said to Blair. "Oh, I see you caught her again. Well done, dear!"

Scribe glared at her. "You did that on purpose last time, didn't you?"

She shrugged. "They take out my trash and paint my closets. I have to keep them happy. Besides, dear. A nice, long session with them will go miles toward improving your attitude. And I know you usually don't do this in your fiction, but be sure to use a condom!"

She moved off down the street as Blair pulled Scribe into the building. Scribe hollered after her, "Oo, you just wait till I get back home! I'm goin' to the National Enquirer with this, Dr. Ruth!"

When he got her into the apartment, Scribe said, "Look, Sandburg, I appeal to you as a cop. You can't rape me. You’d lose all credibility, and hey. You know damn good and well that with your tendency to go in for angst and therapy, you'll be working on the guilt for the next decade or so."

'Don't worry, it won't be rape." He'd dragged her into the bathroom, and was digging through the medicine cabinet and the drawers. "Dammit, I know I have one around here somewhere."

"Yeah, that's what they all say. I ain't givin' it up. I have too much leg work invested."

"So you say. We'll see. Maybe in the junk drawer." He dragged her into the kitchen and started pawing through one of the drawers, which was filled with odds and ends. "Paper clips, pizza coupons, empty pen, ace of clubs... no wonder Jim got so pissed off last time he tried to play solitaire, empty pen, empty pen, empty pen, half empty tube of lube (heh heh hehe)...Crap. Not here. Okay, in the night stand for sure."

He pulled her up the stairs to the loft. "Now I'm curious. What are you hunting for?"

"Well, it's like this..." He was digging in the drawer of the bedside night stand. "Jim and I were both out looking for you. I was checking out the types of places you haunt: bookstores, libraries, video rental places, the breakfast foods sections of the supermarket... Anyway, I got tired and stopped at a bar for a drink. I wound up sitting between a blonde vampire and a very big guy who appeared to be wearing nothing more than a plaid towel wrapped around his waist. And he was very drunk, nattering on about how his woman had been chased off, after he'd finally managed to figure out what floated her boat... hah!"

Blair held up a rubber band.

"McCleod, you blabber mouthed son of a bitch! Don't do it, Sandburg!" Blair gathered his lush length of auburn curls back into his fist.

"This isn't fair!"

He stretched the rubber band.

"I will be strong! I have a will of iron. I have a will of steel. I have a will of diamond."

Blair was slipping the rubber band around his hair.

"I have a will stronger than the breath of one who has eaten an onion, anchovy, and jalapeno pizza! I have a will harder than the heart of an IRS agent! I have a will..."

The hair dropped into a long, flowing, rippling, silky ponytail.

"...of pure marshmallow fluff and custard pudding. Take me."

"Okay."

*Hm. Wonder if Sandburg's had any luck?* Heading toward the loft, Jim adjusted his hearing. (Yeah, I know, farfetched even for fan fiction. If you're going to start bringing up 'logic' at this stage of the game...*snort*)

(gigglegigglegiggle. Oh, man, and I told Duncan he needed a shave!)

Jim hit the gas.

Part 7

"Ow! Scribe, let go of the ponytail."

"Sorry."

"That's okay. Touch, okay. Pull, not okay. Okay?"

"Okay." (stroke)

"You've got some sort of a hair fetish, dontcha?"

"Where do you think Clive, the Leather Hairdresser came from?"

"I love you. You're so twisted. Now... Crap. How are we gonna get the shirt off with these handcuffs on?"

"Well, you could take the cuffs..."

"Forget it. But I want both my hands free, so I will hitch the other cuff to the headboard." (Click)

"You don't trust me."

"No more than, say, your average used car dealer."

"Now my feelings are hurt."

"Aw. I'll kiss it and make it better." (smooch)

(Yip!) "Who said the feelings were located there?" (smooch) "ooo... Okay, maybe you're right. Or maybe they're located more over here." (lick) "Whoaaaa! What happened to smooch?" (smooch) (rustle) "My, you're a wooly little teddy bear, aren'tcha?"

"Growl."

(zip) (peel toss) "Whuff! And now I understand the old saying, 'Hung like a bear.' Damn, Sandburg. No wonder the fan fiction readers scold me for not giving you enough action time."

"You're about to remedy that."

(slam) "Blair, what have I told you abut throwing your jock straps on the living room floor?"

"Oh, shit! Sentinel alert," Scribe gasped.

"We have company, Jim!"

(Okay, it could get a little confusing now, so... What's that? All right, so it's already confusing. Smart ass. Anyway, I'm gonna start giving you dialogue identifiers, 'kay?)

(pound pound pound pound pound) (screeech)

Scribe: "DAMN! That was quick."

(rustle snap ziiiip clunk clunk)

Scribe: "Shit! I thought only Superman could strip that fast."

(pounce!)

Scribe: "Oof! Hey! Clothes still on, clothes still on!"

Blair: "Jim! Cool it. Not even you can do it through denim."

Scribe: "Well, he was making a damn good try."

Jim: "She's still got her clothes on. why has she still got her clothes on?"

Scribe: "Hey, I'm right here. No referring to me in second person. Or is that third person? Omnipotent viewpoint? Damn, never could get those straight."

Jim: "All right. You've still got your clothes on. Why have you still got your clothes on?"

Blair: "We can't figure out how to get the shirt off."

Jim: "Fuck, Sandburg. You're starving to death, and you're looking for a napkin instead of a can opener."

Blair: "Huh?"

Jim: "Translation: Who the fuck cares about the shirt? The pants will come down."

(zip)

Scribe: "Hey!"

Blair: "But I want the shirt off. After all the crap we've been through chasing her, don't we deserve the full experience."

Jim: "Oh, all right." (click)

Scribe: "Yipe! WhaddidIdo?"

Jim: "Relax"

(slice)

(rip rip rip)

Scribe: "Ooo, McCleod is gonna be so pissed when he finds out what you did to his shirt!"

Jim: "I'm wetting myself. C'mere."

Blair: "Uh, Jim? First come, first served."

Jim: "I'm not breaking in line, Chief."

Blair: "Well, then, what are you..."

Jim: "Hand me that Astroglide, wouldya?"

Scribe: "Hey!"

Jim: "What's the problem? You write it as a beautiful experience."

Scribe: "Yeah, but I don't have a prostate, do I? The whole point of the exercise is lost with me."

Blair: "C'mon, Scribe. I highly recommend it."

Scribe: "You would."

Jim: "All right, time for some friendly persuasion. Blair?"

Blair: "Yes Jim?"

Jim: "You can go get the canned cream now."

Blair: (SQUEEEEEEEAL!)

(scamper scamper scamper)

(slam!)

(Bounce bounce bounce)

Scribe: "Oh, crap! Uh uh. Ellison, let go of my arm. I'm gonna smack him if he comes anywhere near me with that can. That shit is cold!"

Blair: "Only for a minute, I promise!"

(Shake shake shake)

(pop)

Scribe: "I'm warning you, I can still kick."

Jim: "Not if I do this."

Scribe: "Uff! Damn, you're heavy. Get off my legs!"

Jim: "Nope. Get 'er, Blair."

(pssssssssssssssssssstttttt)

Scribe: "SONUVABITCH, THAT'S COLD! Oh, geez, now I'm gonna be all sticky."

Blair: "Not when I get through with you."

Scribe: "I don't find this the least bit..." (slurp) "...uh... No, really, this is..." (sluuuurp smack) (groan) "...so damn kinky." (wiggle) "Jim, could you get off my legs, please? Blair needs more room."

(nibble) (squeak!)

Jim: "Changed your mind yet?"

Scribe: "Wha?" (dazed grin) "C'mere, you big, hunky, Blessed Protector, you."

Jim: "Blair, you ready for dessert yet?"

(snarf) (gobble)

Blair: "Almost." (lick lick lick lick lick lick) (probe)

Scribe: "Shriek!"

(pant pant pant)

Blair: "Okay. I think she's ready."

Scribe: "She's beyond ready. Hurry up, you two!"

Jim: "Never refuse a lady."

(Due to matters of delicacy, plus the fact that I have a sadistic streak, I here insert the sounds of various thumps, squeals, smacks, grunts, groans, moans, wails, curses, begging, whimpers, whines, and pet names. Hee hee hee.)

Scribe: (exhausted, yet contented, voice) "Only in fan fiction would you find a simultaneous triple orgasm."

Jim: (grunt)

Blair: (giggle)

Scribe: "Okay, look you guys. After your sex, I always write you a nice, long nap. I want one of those. It's only fair. And I want the cuffs off."

Blair: "But how can we be sure you won't sneak off?"

Scribe: "Sandburg, I believe my mobility is going to be impaired for a few hours, anyway."

Jim: "Don't worry, Chief. High security snuggling will take care of the problem."

Scribe: "What do you mena, high security snuggling?"

Jim: "We'll show you." (Click) "Blair, get behind. She doesn't need that hair in her face."

Blair: "All right. Hellllooooo, Miss bottom!"

Scribe: "Don't you dare goose. Not after what I just went through."

Jim: "Okay, Blair. Arm and a leg, over the top."

Blair: "Check." (shift)

Jim: "Now me." (shift) "There. I'd like to see you get out of this."

Scribe: "I guess it's a damn good thing I'm cold natured."

Jim: "Go to sleep."

Scribe: "I'm kinda scared to."

Blair: "Why?"

Scribe: "Welllll, considering what I've run into in this world, I'm just a Wweebit apprehensive about what'a wet dream would be like over here. I'm not sure my heart could stand it."

(Shimmer)

Scribe: "Fuck. Renewed again."

Blair: (giggle)

Scribe: "No!"

Part 8

"...so you could hide out here, and you'd only have to take care of Jim and me. Oh, and maybe Rafe. Whadaya think?"

Scribe spit hair out of her mouth. "I think this spooning business is only gonna work with you behind me, like Ellison said."

"Sorry." Blair turned over, facing her.

"I think I'd miss my computer."

"You can use my laptop."

"I'd miss my cat."

"Well, Jim's sort of pantherish."

"Blair, my cat was fixed."

"Um, no. Definitely unJimlike."

"Hmm?" Jim, eyes still closed, hooked his leg back over Scribe and began to hump against her butt.

"Geez, Sandburg, he does it in his sleep?"

"Oh, he doesn't mean to be rude. Wake up, Jim!"

"No, wait!" (YIP!) "Stop that, Ellison! It's too damn early."

"You never heard of an eye opener?"

"My eyes, or yours?" She managed to crawl over Blair, using him as a shield.

Jim, still not fully awake, didn't notice the difference right away. "Hey, you've let your hair grow." His fingers trailed down Blair's bristly cheek. "Um, Scribe? Honey, a little moustache on a woman can be kinda cute, but this..."

"Jim, open your eyes, damn it. And let go of my dick. I can see you believing the hair grew overnight, but she didn't have time to fly to Sweden for a sex change."

Jim blinked his eyes open. "Oh. Sorry about that, Chief." (pet)

"Mmmm, apology accepted."

"Hey, wait a minute. We've got the requisite crunchy cop outsides here, but what happened to our creamy Scribe filling?"

"Shit! And your clothes are gone, too!"

"Scribe!"

Scribe was tiptoeing to the front door, singing softly, "Slip out the back, Jack. Slip the police, Denise. Before they get smart, Bart. Before they have a cow." She heard the yell. "Whoa! Heed the bad vibe, Scribe. Make like a nomadic tribe. Fold your tents, girl, and haul ass now!"

She ran out into the hallway. *Ha! Made it. I'll have plenty of time to escape while they get dressed and...*

She heard the door slam, and running footsteps. *Sonofabitch! A streaking Guide and Sentinel! The slash fans will have heart attacks! I may just have killed several lurkers.*

She speeded out onto the street, daring a glance back. They were gaining. *Woo, look at Blair's hair fly in the wind! And... uh, that isn't the only thing flying in the wind. I thought cold was supposed to have a shrinking effect...*

As she pounded down the sidewalk, she yelled, "Quick exit needed! Potentially grateful author seeks escape help!"

A car pulled up beside her, pacing her, and a voice yelled, "Get in!"

*God knows who this is but I can't be picky right now, cause I'm about to be run down.* The car stopped briefly, she jerked open the door, and threw herself into the back seat. The sound of screeching tires coincided with the slam as they pulled away.

"Meow."

Scribe hauled herself up off the floor to find herself staring into the face of an orange tabby cat, who was looking over the front seat. She peered at the dark haired young man who was at present doing his best Richard Petty impersonation. "Gary Hobson, right?"

"Check."

"How the heck did you know to be there right then?" He handed her a section of the Chicago Sun Times, and she checked the front page. "Shit! They caught me. I didn't think they could use that type of language in public print, but that would have made the front page." As she looked, the headline shimmered, and reformed to say FAN FIC AUTHOR RUMORED LOOSE IN AREA. "Well, you saved not only me, but their careers. They couldn't have stayed on the force after that."

There was a gentle whooshing sound, and Scribe collapsed back on the seat as a wave of stench wafted back. Hobson never flinched. "Christ! Hobson, you're in the front seat with him. Why aren't you gagging?"

"I been dealing with this cat a loooong time. I think my sense of smell is pretty dead by now."

"Well, God bless ya, I hope so. That beast is worse than a longshoreman after a cabbage, broccoli, and pinto bean feast."

"I thought you liked cats."

"I love cats, but that is a walking chemical plant. If we were in a coal mine, the canary would have just died. Pull over and let me out of here."

"Nuh uh."

"Aw, cripes. You, too?"

"Don't act so surprised. And since I don't get near the fan fic play that Sandburg, Ellison, Fraiser, Kowalski, Vecchio, Harris, Spike, Angel..."

"I get the message."

"Hell, even Wesley gets more action than I do."

"Yeah, but it's usually guys."

"I'm willing to compromise."

"Your tolerance touches me deeply. Lemme out! This sweat suit material is porous, and if it absorbs scents, I'm doomed. Ellison will track me down in no time."

"Nope. We're going straight to my apartment. The only thing that could stop me now would be..."

(screeeeech)

"A road block." He peered through the windshield, puzzled. "By the RCMP?"

"Oh, boy."

An extremely large Mountie approached the car and leaned in the window, "Good day to you, sir. We are making spot inspections in an effort to detect illicit Scribe smuggling." He glanced in the back seat. "Ah. I see you have contraband."

She peered at him, "Um... Turnbull, right?"

He tipped his Smokey the Bear hat. "Yes ma'am. Kindly step out of the car before you choke."

"Hey, wait a minute!"

"I am sorry, sir, but I must confiscate her." he said politely as Scribe climbed out of the car. She started to sneak away, but he caught her neatly by the back of the sweatshirt. "You are not properly licensed for Scribe hunting."

"Oh, get real! There is no such thing as a Scribe hunting license."

Renfield removed a slip of paper from his pocket and showed it to him. Scribe, curious, peered over at it. "Well, I'll be damned. Who's issuing these things?"

"The Powers That Be."

"Lotta fucking nerve, they got."

Hobson was fuming. "Okay, where do I go to get one?"

"Contact either Mister Doyle or Miss Cordelia. Good day to you, sir. You may be on your way."

He called to the Consulate van that was blocking the street. "Constable Fraiser, I have her in custody. You may break the road block now." The van drove around to them, and Hobson drove off, muttering darkly.

Benton parked and got out. "Hi, Benny. What's Renfield doing out of the Consulate?"

"Well, Scribe, since I did not seem to be having much luck with my solo efforts, I recruited Constable Turnbull's assistance."

Scribe twisted to look at Turnbull, "And what, she asked innocently, do you get out of the deal?"

He smiled charmingly. "Seconds."

"Cripes. Now they're working in teams."

Fraiser took charge of her, getting a firm grip on the back of her neck. "Renfield, just drive around, if you would. Come along, Miss Scribe."

Turnbull got into the driver's seat as Fraiser opened the back door and more or less heaved her up into the van. The door slammed, and Turnbull drove off.

(Once again we go to dialogue. Look, people, folks pay good money for this sort of stuff on 976 lines, so qwitcherbichen and enjoy it.)

Scribe: "What the...? Fraiser, what the hell is a waterbed doing in a Canadian Consulate van?"

Fraiser: "We made a few modifications."

(mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmwha)

Scribe: (pant) "Look, you're gonna have to let me come up for air occasionally, or this is going to end up as necrophilia and squick the hell out of the readers."

Fraiser: "All right. Breathe." (pause) "Feeling better?"

Scribe: "Yeah. Look..."

(mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmwha)

(pant) (wheeze)

Scribe: "Benton!"

Fraiser: "Forgive me. Oh, and you might wish to make a dental appointment. I believe I detected the beginning of a cavity in your left second molar."

Scribe: "I'll make a note of it. Benton, if we're to have a deep and meaningful relationship, it would be better if we practiced abstinence for at least the first few dates."

Fraiser: "By my calculations this can be constitute our third date. Besides, I'll settle for just sex."

Scribe: "Oh, what the hell. I went all through the seventies without making it in a van."

Fraiser: "Excellent!"

(slosh)

Scribe: "Shit, Benny! Did you import this water from Canada? It's frigid."

Fraiser: "I beg your pardon."

(dial) (sigh)

Scribe: "Much better. Hey..." (blink) "A mirrored ceiling?!"

Fraiser: "Modifications."

(rustle)

Scribe: "Take off the tunic."

Fraiser: "Oh, no. The last time I did that..."

Scribe: "Benny... brass buttons. Hello?"

Fraiser: "Oh. I see your point. Very well."

(rustle rustle)

(zip) Scribe: "But you can keep the boots on, since there’s no spurs. What are you doing?"

Fraiser: "If you recall, right before you climbed through that window, I was offering you a lesson in linguistics."

Scribe: "Uhhhh..." (slurp) "Oh, dear."

(Insert extended period of wet, obscene licking and snuffling noises here)

Scribe: "Up, you big husky! Time for the main course."

Fraiser: "Happy to oblige, but you will have to uncross your legs from behind my neck." (Shift) "Thank you."

Scribe: "Ouch! Damn renewable virginity!"

Fraiser: "Oh, I am sorry."

Scribe: "S'okay."

Fraiser: "Well, then..."

(Insert sound of gently lapping waves, rising in speed and force to hurricane proportions)

Scribe: (hooooooooooooowl!)

Fraiser: "Yip!"(The tide breaks) (gasp) "Lord, woman! I haven't heard anything like that since Diefenbacher ran into that collie that was in heat."

Scribe: "Just call me Lassie."

Turnbull: "Um... Constable Fraser?"

Fraiser: (sigh) "Yes, yes. Pull over." (Screech) "Renfield, what are you digging in the glove compartment for? It is a well established fact that we do not require prophylactics in this universe."

Turnbull: "It's not that." (Whispers) "I had an onion omelette for breakfast. I'm looking for the Tictacs."

Fraiser: "Change tray."

Turnbull: "Thank you." (Snap rattle) (munch) (breathes into cupped hands and sniffs) "Much better."

Scribe: "Will you hurry up? I'm getting sea sick. I’ll need Dramamine soon."

Turnbull: "Yes ma'am."

(Scuffling as Benton and Renfield exchange places) (van pulls away)

Scribe: "Hello, oh Neighbor From the Great White North."

Renfield: "Greetings. Prepare to begin friendly relations."

(snog)

Scribe: "Wow, minty fresh!"

(zip)

Turnbull: "Miss Scribe, speaking of Lassie..."

Scribe: "You're kidding. On a waterbed? Getting screwed through the mattress I can take (though it might be a wee bit damp in this case), but the tsunami would probably wash me right out the back door."

Turnbull: "Very well, then. We can play pony." (Sound of Mountie butt hitting waterbed) "Mount up."

Scribe: "Tally ho. And in this case, I suppose it's more 'ho than tally."

(Stereo grunts)

(swerve)

Scribe: "Eyes on the road, Fraiser. Whuff. Ya know, I never specify size in my fics, but so far all you guys have been... Uh... well, we're not talkin' John Holmes, here, but we're definitely not talkin' Pee Wee Herman, either."

Turnbull: "Fan fiction. Now, generally new riders are advised not to 'post', but in this case..."

(bounce) (bounce) (bounce) (bounce) (bounce) (bounce) (bounce)

(Pause)

(bouncebouncebouncebouncebouncebouncebounce)

Turnbull: "Aaaaaargh!"

Scribe: (sigh) "Thank you kindly."

notes: IMPORTANT TO UNDERSTAND JOKE: a nutria is a swamp rodent native to Texas and Louisiana. They can reach up to 15lb. No, I'm not going to tell you why this is significant.

Part 9

"Turnbull, let go of the damn pants."

"No, Miss Scribe."

"Damn it, I'm getting cold!"

"Well, I would be pleased to..."

"Do not offer to warm me up. I've had all the friction and body heat I can handle for the time being. Just gimme the damn sweat pants before I do something the bad sort of nasty to you."

"Oh, I do not think you would."

"Maybe. I mean, it would be kinda like kicking a puppy, but you really don't want to risk it. I'm going into Pop Tart withdrawal. It won't be pretty."

(sigh) "Very well."

"Thank you. Fraiser, you can let me out anywhere around here, though a McDonald's would be nice. Or a Dunkin' Donuts."

"I do not believe there is a Dunkin' Donuts around here, Miss Scribe."

Oh, c'mon. Diefenbaker has been getting his fix from somewhere."

"Perhaps later. Now we have to get back to the apartment."

"Uh... and why do we have to get back to the apartment?"

"Stanley. And possibly Ray."

"Uh huh."

(slam)

"Fraiser, she jumped!"

(screeeeech!)

"My goodness, she's much more athletic than I would have expected for a woman with such a high concentration of prepackaged breakfast pastries in her system."

"Yes, well, Turnbull, you must realize that she has been getting a great deal of exercise lately. I believe pursuit is in order."

(Thunder of boots)

A few moments after the Mounties disappeared around a corner (chickaboom, dontch just love it), the sound of heartfelt swearing floated up out of a commercial dumpster. Scribe peeked over the rim, then hauled herself out. She examined an assortment of stains, and sniffed experimentally. "Guh-ross. I'm not entirely sure that was worth it."

(shimmer)

"Crap!" She gazed heavenward belligerently. "Why can't I be automatically cleaned instead? Seems to me it would be a lot more practical. I need a damn washroom."

The building right beside the dumpster was some sort of restaurant. She figured that there should be a ladies room in there somewhere. She sneaked past the hostess to the powder room, and tried to wipe herself down with wet paper towels. Not much success.

Scribe paused outside the restrooms, picking at her shirt, and frowning. "What in God's name is this stuff, anyway?" (sniff) "Eggplant, lamb, honey, walnuts, orange water... Moussaka and baklava?" Her eyes widened. "Whuh oh. Greek food."

Ares came out of the men's room. "Aha!"

"A Greek restaurant?! No fucking way!"

He grabbed her. "Fan fiction, babe. You take what connections you can get."

Flash

(sigh)

"Look, is bondage absolutely required in this universe? These chains are cold."

"Not really required, I s'pose, since I don't intend to leave you alone this time long enough for you to get up to any mischief. Well... any mischief I don't get you up to. How the hell did you manage to trap Autolycus, anyway?"

"Appealed to his vanity."

"Yeah, that would work."

"Look, Ares, these sweats are doing reeeeeal nasty things to your sheets. Why don't you let me go change? Just unhook me, and I'll only be a couple..."

"I don't have the same problem about removing your clothes that Ellison and Sandburg had."

(blink)

"Whoa, and I thought Ellison could strip fast!" (shiver) "For heaven's sake, turn up the fire, why dontcha?" (flare) "Thank you. I never thought I was cold natured, but running around this universe for two whole series in my night clothes must've sensitized me."

"Sensitized? Really?"

(grope)

"Not like that!"

"Coulda fooled me. Okay, ready for a religious experience?"

"Is it a comfort to know that you don't have to number an inferiority complex among your many neurosis?"

"Constantly. Look, you might as well just relax. I had Clotho tangle our threads together."

"Maybe a Greek Boy Scout will come along and unknot them."

"Nah. My brother Hercules would be more likely to knot his own in there. And that blonde bimbo he runs around with."

(sigh)

"Look, get these bracelets off me, and I promise I won’t try to run away. Not immediately, anyway." One dark brow lifted skeptically. "I resent that facial expression. I would like to point out that I have not, since I have been here, specifically broken any stated promises."

"What about Fraiser?"

"I promised wicked. Wasn't siccing Jarod on him wicked enough?"

Ares grinned. "Actually, that was worthy of Strife. Okay. But if you do..."

"I know, I know. Pissed off, huh?"

"Have you ever heard of a little thing called WWI?"

"Um, I vaguely recall something about that in history class, yeah."

"I was mildly ticked."

"Okay." Flash "Ohhhh-kaaay. Maybe I should start keeping track of nationalities. Lesse, I've already got Scotland, America, and Canada..."

"Now you'll have Greece. And, maybe later, I'll invite Xena and Gabby over, and you can add Lesbos to the list."

(Dialogue again. Yeah, sorry. I know the actually act itself can be silly sometimes, buuuut...)

(nip)(squeak!)

Ares: "You know, I like that. Do it again."

Scribe: "No, really. It's totally undignified, and..." (fondle) "Mmmm."

Ares: "Hm. That wasn't it. Nice, but not it."

Scribe: "Look, I refuse to..." (nuzzle) "errr..."

Ares: "You refuse to what?"

Scribe: "I forget."

(twiddle)(tweak) (squeak!)

Ares: "Ah, there we go!"

Scribe: "Cripes. I sound like a demented gerbil."

Ares: "Okay, time to introduce your gerbil to my pocket mouse."

Flash (literally)

Scribe: "Pocket mouse? That's a damn nutria, not a pocket mouse! How the hell did you get away with wearing those leather breach cloths so short?"

Ares: "Camera angles."

Scribe: "Yelp!"

(aaaand...another extended period of the sort of noises that would make you very, very uncomfortable if you heard them coming from your grandparents' bedroom.)

Scribe: (singing) "War... Huh! Good God, ya'll, what is it good for? Lots and Lots and Lots!"

notes: Yes, the Latin translation is fairly accurate. I used an online English/Latin translator. And now I'll look at Hannibal Lector in a whole new way. A spindle is that long, pointy thing people used to keep on their desks to spear papers on so they wouldn't blow away. Are any of you old enough to remember computer cards, and 'Do not fold, spindle, or mutilate'? And as to the streaking incident, it was down the hall from typing, not through home ec., and it may have been just a rumor. I don't know. I couldn't run fast enough to get down there and see for myself. Dammit.

Part 11

"Yo, Ares. How long have I been here?"

The God of War, naked, stretched. Fan fic readers of all genders and sexual orientations began fanning themselves. An extremely butch woman in Akron stated that he was almost enough to make her wish she could be Xena rather than having her way with Xena.

"Uh, well, I don't know. I didn't look at a calendar when I brought you here. I could check planet positions, if you like."

"Look, don't give me that 'time has no meaning here' bullshit. Hello? Fan fic author here. I know from screwed up time."

"Oh, okay. Couple of days, MarySue time line, I guess."

"Uh huh. And how many different virginities have you relieved me of? And remember, I'm not counting that time Joxer sneaked in while you were taking a nap. By the way, that was a nasty thing you did to him."

"Oh, come on. He likes it. And if I didn't occasionally, he'd think I didn't love him any more. As to how many... Hm. Let me get the abacus. Are we talking just traditional, or all three possibilities."

"May as well check 'em all."

Ares fetched the 'beads on a board' counting device, and began to rapidly flick them back and forth. "Let's see, six time eight, carry the four... (clickclickclickclick) No, no, that was a double header..." (Chuckle) "...if you'll pardon the expression. That would bring us toooo..." He showed the results to Scribe.

(blink)

"Holy Moley! Shouldn't I be more tired than this?"

"Under normal circumstances, yes. But a normal circumstance would die from loneliness around here."

"You got that right."

Another stretch. People scheduled cardiac exams. "Well, you're gonna have to amuse yourself for a little while. There are names to be taken and butts to be kicked. I'll be back in a little while."

"Wait a minute, you don't expect me to..."

Flash!

(rattle chink)

"Shit. Well, I guess you do expect me to hang around and wait. Damn. If this had to happen, why can't I ever run into someone with those lined shackles Lindsey was talking about?"

(Sigh)

"Oh well. According to The Law of Improbable Plot Twists, the least likely and unexpected character I can imagine should show up to rescue, or at least unchain me, right about..."

(Sound of door opening)

"...now." (Pause) "Giles? In... leather?"

"Ripper, actually."

"Whoa! Talkin' peripheral here! Even I wasn’t expecting this!"

"Yes, well, no one expected the Spanish Inquisition, either, but that didn't stop John Cleese, did it? Let's see, what’s the proper spell for unlocking chains forged by a belligerent, horny divinity?" He pulled a small notebook from the pocket of his leather jacket.

(flip flip flip flip)

"Hmm. Ya know, you look good enough in tweeds, but that leather..."

"Quiet, woman. I'm busy."

"Oooh. Dominant."

(tingle)

"Ah. Here we are."

(Clears throat)

"Peracto ut universitas somnium iussu qu lectors!"

(Chink rattle)

"Sonuvabitch. It worked. Say, Ripper, what exactly was that spell?"

"Well, translated, it says 'Complete and total nonsense at the command of the readers.' Now, come on. He won't be gone forever."

"I need some clothes."

"Believe me, you don't. Not for what I have planned for the next few hours, anyway."

"Look, I may have gone through the seventies, but I never streaked..." (Clears throat) "and I don't intend to start."

"Very well."

(Swath)

"Ares is gonna be p.o.ed when he finds his sheet gone."

"I can assure you that he won't notice the absence, once he realizes that you're not lying on it. Now, if you won't walk..."

(Oof!)

"Damn, you're athletic for a librarian. God, I hate the fireman carry. All my blood rushes to my head."

"Be patient. We won't be in transit long. You know the geographic anomalies of fan fiction."

Sure enough, they were soon back in Sunnydale, specifically at the high school. Precisely, in the library. And, if you want to put a really fine point on it, on Giles' desk.

(Yeah, that's right. Dialogue and sound effects time again. God, you people are so much fun to tease.)

Scribe: "Hey! For heaven's sake, get rid of those staples and paper clips first, wouldya?"

Ripper: "Sorry."

(Sweep)

Scribe: "You made such a mess. Giles is really gonna be sore."

Ripper: "Oh, pardon me. You've obviously mistaken me for someone who gives a flying fuck." (unwrap) "Mm. Niiiiice."

(blush)

Scribe: "Thank you. I like you're accent."

Ripper: "Yes, I've heard that's one of your little quirks. I'm sorry I can't manage a pony tail for you. Not unless you'd count one of those obscenities they sell in the red neck mail order catalogues, where they have a cap with pony tail attached. I think it's between the Boogie Bass and the Beer Hat. Or possibly the 'You Can Take My Gun When You Pry It From My Cold, Dead Hands' cross stitch sampler."

Scribe: "Bleh! No thanks. Don't care for the artificial stuff. Only want the organic."

Ripper: "Yes, that's why I've been telling Buffy, Willow, and Cordelia that they're really wasting their time, because you don't like..."

Scribe: "Let's not go there, shall we?" Ripper: "Okay. Anyway, I'd rather go..." (squeak) "here. Or..." (moan) "here. Or, better yet..." (whiiiiiine!) "Oh, that was a good one! Here."

(pant gasp)

Scribe: "Where the hell did you learn that?!" It's not natural. You're an Englishman, for God's sake!"

Ripper: "I'm an Englishman who's spent a great deal of time shut up in a library with a special restricted section that contains such volumes as The Kama Sutra, The Joy of Sex, The Sensuous Woman, and Real Dirty Secrets, or How to Make Her Scream Like a Banshee."

(unbutton unbutton unbutton unbutton unbutton)

Scribe: "Say, I've always wondered. Does the benefit of not having to worry about getting caught outweigh the extra effort involved when it comes to the button fly versus zipper debate?"

Ripper: "Debate club meets on Thursdays."

(yelp!)

Scribe: "Shit. Just once I'd like it to not be my first time!"

Ripper: "That's possible, but you have to be very quick."

(Hm. Okay, I admit it. I don't know what doing it on a desk sounds like. Provide your own sound effects here. I'm sure you have a deviant enough imagination. I should have you trained by now.)

Ripper: "That was lovely. Remind me to send you a fruit basket."

Scribe: "Yeah, right. Okay, get up now. I want to go check for a computer lab and see if I can figure out how to get home."

Ripper: "Not juuuust yet."

(Flip)

Scribe: "Oh, no you don't!"

Ripper: "I'm afraid I must insist. I haven't seen Harris around for awhile now. After that body cavity search incident you put him through, he's been rather skittish, so you owe me. And payback is a bitch."

Scribe: "Yeah? Well, so am I, when I'm pissed."

(Grab) (poke)

Ripper: "Ow!" (jumps back) "That smarts!"

Scribe: "No shit? Keep your distance, or I'll use this spindle to give you a really intimate body piercing."

Scribe backed to the door, turned, and sprinted out into the hallway. *Hm. So I'm streaking after all.* (Nostalgic smile) *This reminds me of that time in '76 when a bunch of the football players pooled their money and paid the quarterback to put a paper bag over his head and run through Home Ec naked. Talk about your back field in motion! Talk about your tight ends! Mrs. Cleaver almost swallowed her pearls. And that's one of the few incidents I can point to in high school where I actually got an education. Speaking of which, I think the locker room should be my first stop. someone is bound to have left a change of gym clothes. I only hope they've been washed sometime this semester...*

Be careful... Part 12

Scribe found the girl's locker room without too much trouble. And, while there were no gym clothes in evidence, there was a complete cheerleader outfit. *What the...? Have I stumbled into a male fantasy section. Damn, look how short that skirt is. And no matching bloomers. Still, it's something... But first...*

Scribe did a quick Mary Catherine Gallagher, sticking her hands under her arms and taking a fast sniff. *Ew. Things weren't helped by that dumpster swim, and let's face it, even in fantasy you can have only so much sex before you start to smell kind of ripe...*

(shimmer)

(sigh)

*Even if the maidenhead keeps refreshing, the rest of the bod doesn't. I've never been able to stand communal showers, but since there's no one around here to commune with, it should be alright.*

She moved over into a corner of the shower area, and turned on the one at the end, and the one around the corner from it on the perpendicular wall, setting up a nice cross spray. *Ooh, someone left Irish Spring! Love it, love it, love it!* She began to slather herself. It worked up the kind of foam that was only possible in purest fantasy.

*Mm, boy, this feels good. Now, if I only had some Suave, or maybe Head 'n Shoulders...* She eyed the pale green bar of soap in her hands, then shrugged. "Screw it. I'll have a hot oil treatment when I get home." She began to scrub the bar in her hair, and it foamed even better than shampoo.

Scribe closed her eyes against the soap, and scrubbed enthusiastically. "I'm gonna wash that man right outta my hair!" she warbled, "I'm gonna... um... oh, crap! Can't remember the rest of it. What other hair washing songs are there? Uh... Shit. No hairwashing songs. Okaaay... No shower songs. Hm."

She tipped her head back thoughtfully and began to rinse. "Okay, bath songs. Splish splash! I was takin' a bath, long about a Saturday night! Rub a dub, sittin' in the tub, thinkin' everything was alright. Uh... um... dah da dee. Splish, splash! I jumped back in the bath..."

(Three part harmony) "Now how was I to know there was a party going on?"

Scribe's eyes flew open. "Buffy? Willow? Anya? Cripes!" She backed up. "Oh... uh... hi."

Willow smiled brightly. "Hi! Girls night again!"

"Oh, right! I'll just run down to the home ec room and make some S'mores. Be right back!" She tried to slip past, but Buffy herded her back into the corner.

"You can't go running around like that," she cooed.

"Well... Ya'll seem to be. You are ...uh, naked. Or, perhaps more properly, nekkid."

Anya looked puzzled. "There's a difference?"

"Yeah. To quote Lewis Grizzard, great red neck humorist, naked means you got no clothes on. Nekkid means you got no clothes on, and you're up to something."

The other three girls nodded vigorously. "Nekkid it is." Willow agreed. They started to close in.

"Stop it! Go away! I'm not politically fashionable enough to be bisexual."

"I know what to do!" Buffy produced (don't you dare ask me from where, since she was naked, excuse me, nekkid at the time. This is fan fiction.) a rubber band, and pulled her hair back into a pony tail. "Pony tail!"

Scribe gave her a pained look, then glanced at Willow. "Has any one explained to her that the P.O.G is Ponytails On Guys, not Girls?"

"Buffy, sweety, put your fingers in your ears. The wind is whistling through again, and it's going to blow out what little brains you have." Willow chided.

"Can we have sex now?" Anya was tapping her foot impatiently.

"Anya, have you considered taking assertiveness training?" Scribe said. "You'll never get what you want out of life if you don't ask."

"Okay, girls," Willow said. "She's slippery literally as well as figuratively right now, but there are three of us. There's no reason why we can't have a party that will have straights, bis, and gays alike falling out of their swivel chairs and spraying the beverage of their choice onto their monitor. On the count of three."

"Oh, cripes!" (hands over bosum.)

"One..."

"Double Cripes!" (hands over tushie.)

"Two..."

"Triple into infinity cripes!" (hands over the area that's held the most interest for the majority of characters through all three parts of the series) "Something's always left uncovered. I need more hands!"

"We can take care of that. Three!"

Scribe yelled, "For God's sake, go to dialogue! Those damn warning labels aren't gonna keep out all the kids!"

(triple pounce)

(slip)

Scribe: "Oof! Where the hell did all this weight come from?! None of you look bigger than a size three."

(gropegropegropegropegropegropegrope)

Scribe: "Yow! Who the hell has the hangnail?!"

Buffy: "Fuck! I knew I'd regret blowing off my manicure." (nip)(spit) "There you go."

Scribe: "Gross. Considerate, but gross."

(smooch)

Scribe: "As many times as I've told someone to kiss that portion of my anatomy, I never dreamed that someday an ex vengence demon actually would." (nip) "Yipe! Watch it! I always say 'kiss', not 'bite'."

Willow: "Buffy, move over, you stingy hog!"

Buffy: "No way, Witchy-Poo. It's been ages since I got laid, and I'm hornier than Santa's entire herd of reindeer."

Scribe: "Yeah. Come to think of it, I can't really remember any fan fiction where you get laid, Buffy. I mean, it's kind of like UFOs, or honest politicians. I hear rumors, people say that they're out there, but I have yet to encounter an incident myself..."

Willow: "Can't do anything about the politicians, but later on we can go by the Roswell section..."

Anya: "Damn, you people waste a lot of time talking!"

(Very agressive grunting, slurping, licking, wiggling, moaning, whimpering, and a whole lot of squeaking on Scribe's part. Think an entire lab of overstimulated mice being visited by a cat).

(pantpantpantpantpantpantpant)

(slurp)

Scribe: "Jesus! Lemme catch my breath!"

Anya: "Uh uh."

(slurpslurpslurpnibbleslurpslurp)

Scribe: "Aaaaarrrroooooooo!"

Willow: (nostalgically) "Damn, I miss Oz."

Scribe: "You people have been hanging around with Blair Sandburg, haven't you?"

Buffy: "I hate him. His hair is prettier than mine."

Scribe: "His hair is prettier than everybody's."

Anya: "Okay. Turnabout."

Scribe: "Huh? Oh, I don't think so."

Willow: "Oh, come on! Fun, fun, fun."

Scribe: "Gave it up for Lent."

Buffy: "You're Southern Baptist."

(pitying look) Scribe: "Not real familiar with fundamentalist views on same sex slap 'n tickle, are you Buffs?"

Willow: "I try to get her to read books, but she just keeps eating the pages."

Scribe: "Look, I have an idea. Role playing, okay? See the cheerleader uniform? I'm the new try out for cheerleader, right? And you're the committee that decides whether or not I make the team, right? And I want to join reeeeal bad, get it? Wink, wink, nudge, nudge?"

Chorus: "Oooo. Okay."

Scribe: "Fantastic. I'm such a ham."

Anya: "Actually, you taste more like chicken..."

Willow: "Shut up, Anya, you'll spoil the mood."

Scribe slipped into the little cheerleader outfit. "Boy, if my high school buddies could see me right now there'd be several kinds of fits being pitched. But this needs something... I know! Pom poms. You know... Shake 'em to the east..." She did, but it wasn't pom poms she shook. The other three girls were so mezmerized they didn't notice her easing toward the door. "Shake 'em to the west..." Again, she did. "You can fool more than guys if you shake your chest!" She ran out the door.

The three girls blinked at each other. Anya said, "So does this mean she didn't go for the pom poms?"

Be careful...Part 12

"Rah rah, siss bah boom! Can any of these people screw in a bedroom?" *Oh, geez. I should ditch the cheerleader outfit. It does weird things to my head, and as weird as my head was to start with, I'm not sure that's a good thing.*

Scribe made it out of the high school and headed off in a random direction. By now she'd pretty much learned that it didn't matter which way she chose. No matter where she went, there she was.

So it wasn't all that much of a surprise when the bag dropped over her head.

(squeak!)

"Yeah, yeah. Heard it before." The bag settled down lower, and was bound around her arms. Strong arms lifted her, and she was once again dumped over a very solid shoulder.

"Oof! Fuck! Would one of you people please invest in a wheelchair or wheelbarrow or dolly or something? I hate this. I get all dizzy."

"Like dizzy is an unnatural state for you."

"Crap. Angelus?"

"The one and only." (Firm smack on her bottom.)

They were traveling rapidly, and the jouncing was making it hard to breathe, much less talk. But such things are inconsequential to the true motor mouth, so Scribe kept talking. "Why aren't you out molesting Xander?"

"He's kinda hard to find lately. That last run-in with the Sunnydale cops took a lot out of him." (evil snicker) "Or put a lot into him, if you listen to the rumors."

"Aw, cripes. That poor kid. I'm starting to feel really guilty about what I've put him through."

"A tender-hearted fan fiction author? Please! What about the fine old tradition of character torture? Don't let your universe down, Scribe."

"You're just saying that because you're a horny, sadistic, cruel, mean, evil psychotic."

"True. But I'm a lot of fun at parties. I'll show you in a few minutes. We'll have such a party!"

She kicked vigorously. "Don't wanna! I'm tired. Besides, you play too rough. I never did believe that 'oh, he hit you. He must like you!' shit. I think you sadists just promote it as propaganda."

"Damn, we've been found out. How can I explain this to you? What YOU want doesn't matter a whole hell of a lot right now."

"OOOOO! I am gonna write you such an owie as soon as I can get hold of a pen!"

"You'll have to go a ways to top going to Hell and having Buffy as a girlfriend." Pause. "Those were not, you understand, necessarily in order of amount of pain caused."

(KICK!) "Lemme the hell go!"

"Say, you were aware of how short that skirt is, and your complete lack of undergarments, weren't you?"

She stilled. "Piss."

"I just love an elegant woman."

There was a muted clanging sound, and suddenly Scribe found herself dropping. Luckily she landed on top of Angelus. He was going to be a bit the worse for it, but she escaped injury.

She was hauled to her feet. The rope binding her loosened, and she fought her way out of the sack, peering around to see what had happened.

Angelus was on the ground. Well, actually, she was standing on him. Good thing he wasn't breathing, or she would have lost her balance. He was out like a light. "What... who... how?"

"Jus' add 'when' an' 'where' an' ya got a journalism rule, luv." Spike grinned at her. "Who? Me. How? Coshed 'im. Wha'?" He was holding a black cast-iron skillet. He flipped it in the air and caught it neatly by the handle. "Took a little clue from yer run in wiv the minion in th' kitchen in the las' series. Worked a treat. Now, c'mon before 'is Surliness wakes up." He grabbed her arm, and they trotted off together.

*Yeah, right, I'm running away from one vampire with another vampire. But... it's sort of along the lines of 'Which would you rather be attacked by? A fair- sized cocker spaniel, or a Rottweiler with a bad attitude?'*

"S'cuse me." (pant) "Where we goin'?" (pant) "I'm kinda pooped here."

"I ain't surprised, ducks. You been a busy lil' thing. 'ow many virginities is it now?"

"I've lost count. Which is a very frightening thing."

"Yuh. Yer may be approachin' Xander 'arris territory soon. An' 'e's been at it a lot longer'n you 'ave. 'ere we are."

They had just turned into the Sunnydale Cemetery.

"Spiiiiike. What are we doing here?"

"Goin' ta my place, luv." He tugged her toward a crypt.

"What? Oh, no. Look, hey, I love goth, I think it's way cool and all that. But an actual tomb? Major ickiness. Dust and bones and unidentifiable scraps..."

"Lord, woman, d'ya think the Canucks are the on'y bleedin' ones what can redecorate?" He dragged her inside.

"Shag carpet?" (stare) "Excuse me, avocado green shag carpet? And an orange vinyl bean bag chair? And a lava lamp? And..." (peek) "No, I wasn't mistaken, that's a vibrating mattress in that coffin. We're talkin' whole new dimensions of kink here. What, no smiley face poster?"

"On th' ceilin', over the doss."

"Cripes. Spike, exactly how many porno movies did you watch back in the seventies?"

"Dunno. But the theaters were great. Fuckin' smorgasbord, laid out all nice an' neat, and dinner theater. Entertainment while ya noshed. Up in the box, luv." Scribe balked. "Oh, c'mon. I got rid of the shroud an' put in some nice Laura Ashley sheets, just for you. 200 thread count. Cost me a bomb."

"It's not so much that, Spikeman. I just realized something."

"Yuh?"

"Well, I've been running through this whole series complaining about being cold..."

"Yuh?"

(Yelp!) "Like those hands of yours! Jesus, it feels like you've been making snowballs."

"Well, I'm sorry ducks, but thas' 'ow it is when yer blood doesn't circulate."

"If your blood doesn't circulate, then how can you vampires get a..." Spike looked at her. "Oh. Right. Fan fiction. Never mind. The point is, if your hands are that cold..." She shuddered.

"Well, there is one fing what can be done about it."

"Spend some quality time under an electric blanket?"

"Nah. A nice little snack would warm me up proper."

"Look, I lost the box of Pop Tarts way back when..." He was grinning. "Uh... right. That wasn't what you meant, was it?" He shook his head. She started to back up.

"IthinkihearmymothercallingIleftsomethingonthestovethephoneisringing Ihaveapieintheoventhewater'sabouttorunoverinthebathtubmycatneedstobe fedIhavetovisittheladies'room..." She broke for the door. "I really gotta go!"

(pounce) "OW! Dammit, Spike! Christ, I never expected to get a hickey this deep."

"Mmfry."

"What?"

"I said 'I'm sorry', but I ain't, really. You're quite tasty, in more ways than one."

"Do you have any Bactine? Maybe a styptic pencil?"

"Don' worry, it'll stop in a minute. Cor blimey, I 'ardly expected you ta carp about a little blood considerin' 'ow many times lately y've been..."

"Do not go there."

"Anyways, feel. I'm warmin' up a bit."

"Huh. Still below room temperature."

"Don' be so fussy, luv. Now then, jus' climb in..."

"You first."

(Frown) "Why?"

(rapidly fluttering eyelashes). "I'm claustrophobic. I wanna be on top."

"Oh, hell yeah!"

Spike climbed into the coffin and laid down. Scribe smiled sweetly...

...and slammed the lid down.

(snap) (snap) "Ya know, I always wondered if these things locked, but I never had the nerve to check at a funeral." (sound of muffled swearing) "Oh, it's your own fault. Imagine, trusting me, after what I did to you in that last fiction."

She unplugged the lava lamp on her way out. After all, she didn't wish the vampire any real harm, and there was no point in risking a short circuit, or something. Besides, the very idea of all that bubbling goo made her slightly nauseous.

Scribe left the mausoleum, and stood under the stars, contemplating her next move.

*Oh, hell. I know what I have to do. There's someone that I kinda owe, after all this time. And, what the heck. He might be able to get me out of this mess.*

She smirked as she started for Xander Harris' house. "If I ask real nice."

Part 13

Scribe wasn't sure how she knew it, but she knew exactly where to find Xander Harris' house. *Huh. Fan fiction authors have the wonkiest internal compasses available. We either can find anything, or get lost on the way to the toilet.*

She pounded on the door, and it was answered by Mr. Harris. "What do you want?"

She fulfilled the fantasies of many, many fans by putting her knee into the bastard's crotch, dropping him to the ground. "I'm here to de-virginize your son, you child abusing waste of oxygen." She walked past the groaning man, paused thoughtfully, turned around, and let him have one more good one in the dangles from behind, just for good measure. He made a noise like a gelded hamster in a blender set on frappe'.

Xander's mother was watching all this blearily. Scribe advised, "Bitch, leave his ass and get your butt to the Betty Ford clinic. As soon as I get out of here, I'm writing him into a close encounter with an overloaded semi. Oh, and sign custody of Xander over to Giles, wouldya? He'll love the boy... every chance he gets, I'm sure." Advice given, she headed up the stairs.

Xander was moping on his bed. He figured that if they ever made moping an Olympic event, he was a shoo-in for the gold, granting that he didn't go professional before then. When the door opened, and Scribe walked in, he sighed heavily. "Terrific. Now I'm hallucinating."

"Hi, sugar buns."

He blinked. "Okay, visual and auditory hallucinations."

Scribe came over and goosed him. "Ever heard of tactile hallucinations?"

Xander had jumped. Now he stared at her. "No."

"Then I must be real." She hesitated. "Oh, man, I'm arguing my reality to my imaginary concept of a fictional character, appearing in the guise of the real life actor who plays him. My head hurts."

Xander scooted over, patting the mattress hopefully. "Wanna lay down?"

"Promise not to climb on top of me till I say you can?"

Xander bounced excitedly. "Does that mean you intend to say I can?"

"Nothing is set in stone just yet..."

"Except my dick right about now."

"Forthright little booger, aintcha? But I very well might."

"I promise."

Scribe crawled up on the bed and stretched out comfortably. Looking up, she started. "Whoa. Xander, where the hell did you get the full length poster of me you have tacked on your ceiling."

"It's the best seller at the Sunnydale MarySue Mall."

"Um, and how, pray tell, did I come to be nude in it?"

"It's amazing what someone very determined with a lot of imagination and digital technology can do. That guy Data from the Star Trek section is a wiz." He lay down on his side beside her. "So, what are you doing here? Not that I'm not horrendously grateful, you understand. But I'm used to you running like a scalded cat on crack whenever you see me."

"Well, It occurred to me that I've been treating you guys rather shamefully. Ungratefully, anyway, after all the warm tinglies you've given me. It's only fair that I return the favor a little."

Xander bounced excitedly. "I'm gonna get warm tinglies?!"

Scribe smiled demurely. At the same time she began to run one bare foot up and down his leg. "Maaaaybe."

Xander shivered. "Oo. To late. I got one." He started to role on top of her.

"Hey! Promise! Promise!"

"Damn it!" Xander sat back grumpily. "Some may call me paranoid, but I know for a fact that the entire universe is in a conspiracy to keep me frustrated."

"Whaaw. Poor baby." She kissed his ear. He started to reach for her, and she slipped out of reach. He bit a chunk out of his pillow. "No, I'm not running away."

"Then why are you off the bed?"

"I thought I'd kind of tease you a little first..."

"Scribe! I have been teased more than a go-go girl's hairdo in the sixties! I am also now stiffer than said hairdo after the last application of ozone depleting hair spray. Please!" A pause. Then, in a very tiny voice. "please?"

Scribe started to crawl up from the very bottom of the bed, over Xander, and...

*We cut to dialogue and sound effects again. (snicker) Hey, you been watching Scribe, this is being written by Scribe (take that, reality), so you were expecting to be teased, right?*

Xander: "Uh, I'm not complaining here, but what are you doing?"

Scribe: "How'd you like to learn a trick I learned recently from a Mountie?"

Xander: "Okay, I guess. But I was kinda hoping we were gonna..." (zip) "I'm a great believer in education, no matter what my teachers say. So you just go ahead and..." (rummage) "ooo... Keep doing that, if you want..."

Scribe: "I've always enjoyed scavenger hunts, but... Come to think of it, they would have been a lot more fun if one of the items on the list had been fully activated joy stick attached to horny young male. Would have livened things up at the church youth group, I'm tellin' ya. But space here is limited, and I should be running into..."

Xander: (squeak!)

Scribe: "There ya go." Brief silence. "Hey. Xander."

Xander: (moan)

Scribe: "You're a... healthy little... uh, not so little young thing, aren'tca?"

Xander: (breathless) "You're just saying that."

Scribe: "Well, of course I'm saying that. The words are coming out of my mouth, aren't they? Speaking of which..."

Xander: "You don't mean you're going to..."

(slurp)

"Ohdamnsunuvabitchmotherfucker!"

Scribe: "Geez! Did I bite? What?"

Xander: "don'tstopdon'tstoppleasepleasepleasepleaseI'mbeggingyoudoyouwantmetocry?"

Scribe: *sniff* "You poor thing. I can't believe I've been so mean to such a little sweetie. Hold still a minute..."

(rustle) Xander: (long, heartfelt groan, accompanied by sound of eyes rolling back in head)

Scribe: (crooning voice) "Well, helloooooo, Mr. Harris."

Xander: "Now I have to get rich so I can put you in my will." (grunt)

Scribe: (squeak) "Sweetie, you don't have to do that. You can just relax and let me take care of..."

Xander: "After I've waited this long? Literally, and figuratively, fuck that."

(sound of bedsprings creaking)

Scribe: "ooAuoo. Okay. Lord, isn't youthful energy a wonderful thing?"

Xander: "I had about a case of Pop Tarts in reserve, and I've been eating 'em in sheer frustration. I hope you're well rested, cause I have a hell of a sugar rush to work off."

Scribe: "You have Pop Tarts?" (sudden increase in male activity, causing sound of headboard thumping against wall) "Nnnnghuh. I can wait."

Xander: (Yooooowwwl)

Scribe: "Whew. Boy, I'm gonna have a hard time writing fics with you bottoming after this, Xander. Now, I was hoping to ask you..." (flip) "Hey!"

Xander: "Gah. You didn't think that was it, did you? I got some serious payback coming. Coming being the operative word here."

Scribe: "Don't be silly. I mean, even in fan fiction there's a wait of at least..." (rub) "Um..." (prod) "Oo. Well. I, uh, could be wrong, here. Damn, Xander..."

Xander: "In my case the term Sixty second man has a different interpretation. Gee, you're nice and soft."

Scribe: "You're nice and... not."

Xander: "Uh huh."

(second movement of Concerto for Bedsprings and Headboard Percussions, Allegro'.)

Scribe: (pant) "Somehow this..." (grunt) "...seems to call for music. You know..." (whine) "like in Young Frankenstein? Every time the Creature..." (whimper, moan) "...does it with Madeleine Kahn, she sings Oh, Sweet Mystery of Life."

Xander: (breathless) "Shit, a woman who can discuss Mel Brooks movies while she screws. This isn't lust, it's love."

Scribe: "I'm feeling inspired, Xander. I... I don't think I can hold back!"

(Tempo of springs and headboard increases dramatically to crescendo)

Xander: "Sing for me, Scribe! Sing for me!"

Scribe: "Some daaaaay my prince will coooome!" Xander: (shrieeeeeeek!)

(duet pantpantpantpantpantpant)

Xander: "Holy Mother of Pearl. I think I might just stay devirginized after that!" (snuggle) "Okay. You own me now, though I seriously hope you don't lean toward the methods of property markings Angelus favors. I can deal with the Property of tattoos, but those brands..."

(Kiss on top of the head. No, you filthy minded perverts, the HEAD head. Cranium. Skull. Geez, you people...)

Scribe: "Okay. You can sleep in my bed, no matter what my Mom says, and I'll give you a bath regularly, and I'll feed you every day, and I'll let you have goodies when you behave... You are house trained, aren't you?"

Xander: "I stopped marking territory years ago. Can I have a collar?"

Scribe: "I like the way your mind works. And I'll take you for walkies, and I'll see that you get lots of exercise..."

Xander: "Wait a minute. Sleep in your bed?"

Scribe: "After you get me back to my world, yes."

Xander: "Methinks I just felt the tug of the attached string."

Scribe: "Just a little one. A thread, really."

Xander: "You want me to get you out of the MarySue universe."

Scribe: "Well, Duh."

Xander: "Knew it."

Scribe: "Aw, pookie bear, don't be sad."

Xander: "You only did it... Did me to get out of here. You don't love me at all."

Scribe: "Xander, sweetie, that's not true. Look, you're the only one I've actually sought out. That should tell you something. And you didn't even have to wear a ponytail, or talk with an accent."

Xander: "Hey, yeah. That's right." (shy look) "You really like me?"

Scribe: "You know, I never noticed how thick your lashes were. C'mere."

(snuggle snog smooch kiss lick grope)

Scribe: "Damn! Xander... You... You're... already... You're... amazing."

Xander: "Hormones." (pounce) (creak... thump... creak... thump... creak thump creak thump creak thump creakthump creakthump creakthumpcreakthumpcreakthump) "Scribe! I think... I think..."

Scribe: "Yes, Xander?"

Xander: "I think I'm going to..."

Scribe: "Don't hold back!"

Xander: "I think I'm going to sing!"

Scribe: "Go for it!"

Xander: "She's so fiiine, there's no tellin' where the money went..."

Scribe: "I say in every heading, I don't make any money!"

Xander: "Oh, God... She's all miiine, there's no other way to goooo..."

Scribe: "God help me! Robert Palmer!"

Chorus: "Simply irresistable!"

The next door neighbor, alerted by the sound of banging and screams to the fact that several someone's were obviously being beaten to death with nail studded baseball bats at the Harris home, called 911...

CAUTION: Only a very quick mention is passing, but there is a very squicky reference to what Giles might get up to over in RL. Brrrrrr!

Part 14

Xander and Scribe leaned out the window of Xander's bedroom, watching as Xander's moaning, still greenish dad was loaded into an ambulance. Scribe said, "Whoa. I impress myself. I didn't know I kneed him that hard. He must have crystal balls."

Xander gave her a peck on the cheek. "Thanks. And I'll have to remember that. The old bastard will get a hell of a surprise the next time he tries to knock me around."

"Don't mention it. Good thing I left him laying out there for the EMTs to find. They'd have gotten pissed if there wasn't some reason for them to come out here. So, how come your nosy neighbors never raised the cops when your old man was beatin' the snot out of you?"

He shrugged. "Guess they had to have some added angst somehow, though I woulda thought having me removed to protective custody would've opened up a whole new world of jail abuse stories, and get that glint out of your eyes, woman."

"Maybe not abuse? Maybe just a little coersion by a bigger, older, hunky delinquent, or a lecherous case worker?"

(pause) "All right. But they gotta use lube. And have 'em warm their hands. That freakin' body cavity search guy the last time I got hauled in must've been handling ice cubes before he went exploring."

"Note to self: lube and warm hands. But, of course, my writing more fan fiction requires me to be out in my own world, doesn't it?"

"It does?"

"Uh..... yeah."

"Why?"

"Ummmm... Because I say so?"

"Okay."

"Why am I trying to leave you? You're the most accomodating lil' puppy I've ever been around."

"Beats me. I am pretty adorable."

"And so modest, too."

"Learned it from my creator."

"For the last time, I did not invent you. I just... play with you. Look, Xander, serious discussion time... Stop snickering. I can so talk seriously."

"Okay." He tried to look solemn, but his lips were twitching. "I'm serious."

"Seriously. I have come to the conclusion that I can't entirely dump my MarySue universe. It was stupid of me to try to resist the writing like I did. The only solution I see open is to, instead of giving it up, embrace it completely."

"Great!" Xander grabbed her.

"Not like that, stud muffin."

"Rats."

"Well, not entirely like that. You can put your hand back where you had it, if you want to."

"Okay."

(caress)

"Thank you. No, I still want to get back to my own world. I mean, I have responsibilities there. I have a cat to feed. Mom will kick the weiner dog into orbit when she pees on the rug if I'm not there for her to hide behind. I have several mailing lists that contain fans that will possibly get the shakes if I don't shoot them an occasional smut fix..."

"Can't have that. A smut junkie deprived is a sad thing."

"Damn straight. So, I need to go back. But I also need to visit on a regular basis. Say, do you think that if I do the wild thing over here, then real quick jump back to Real Life, I'll stay deflowered? And if I did, would it just shimmer back as soon as I returned?"

"I'm not sure. This is kind of a unique situation, as far as I can tell. You may be setting precedent."

"WHAT?! Not only do I not write... well, publish... Real Character MarySue smut, if I did you can be damn sure that Slick Willy wouldn't have a snowball's chance in..."

"Precedent, not president."

"Oh. Sorry. Didn't see the different spelling." She shuddered. "The man gives a whole new interpretation to the slur Bubba. So, Xandman. You gonna help me get back?"

"Just a second." He went and rummaged in his dresser, then came back, holding a cardboard box.

"Xander Harris! Pop Tarts, and you didn't tell me?"

"Before I got laid? I'm just dumb, I'm not stupid. Aaaand..." He wiggled the box. "They're the new S'mores variety."

"Gimmegimmegimme!"

"In a minute. First put your left hand on the box... NO! Don't grab, just touch."

(grumble) "Okay."

"Now, raise your right hand. Good. Now, do you promise to come back on a regular basis?"

"Yes."

"Get your hand back on the box and say it again."

(sigh) "Yes, I swear."

"Do you swear to let Xander Harris, and perhaps others he might think would be fun, visit you in the so called Real LIfe?"

"I swear."

"Do you swear to keep on writing fan fiction for so long as there is a pen, paper, word processor, or stone and chisel in existence?"

"You betcha."

"Scribe..."

"I swear."

"You may now eat the Pop Tarts." She ripped into the box and started munching. "By the way, I've been doing a little amature magiking. I put a spell on those Pop Tarts. You're bound by those promises."

She paused, mouth full of graham, chocolate, and marshmallow creme, and eyed him. She swallowed, and said, "I have taught you well, Grasshopper. That was sneaky enough to be worthy of me."

"Thank you. Gimme one of those. Thanks to you, I've developed an addiction of my own. Then we'll go to the high school and see if we can't find something to get you back."

She groaned. "You mean to tell me you snatched me over here without having a way to send me back?"

He looked puzzled. "Why would I want to send you back?"

"Oh."

"Anyways, if we promise Giles a long weekend at your place, I'm pretty sure he'll jump at the chance to help."

"Hm. Do you think he'd like to meet my Mom? She could use a little variety in her life."

"If her genetic code is close enough to yours, I'm pretty sure he would. But I'll warn ya. let him get too friendly with her, and he'll try to talk you into a mother-daughter threesome."

Scribe screamed, clapping a hand over her eyes. "Eeeeww! Squicksquicksquick! Megasquick! Jesus, Xander, don't do that to me! Shit, I've already had an irregular heartbeat once in my life, I don't wanna have to go one-on-one with those damn paddles again."

"Sorry, just wanted to warn you."

"How can you know he'd do that?"

Xander sighed. "Because I know him, okay? When you've had someone up your butt, literally, as many times as I've had Giles..."

"Okay, okay. I believe you. I'll just have to risk it. Maybe Mom would like a chastity belt for Mother's Day."

"Scribe? Hello? Remember..." He shook his arms and made a rattling noise.

"Oh, yeah. Um, well... Okay. He can come by when Mom makes one of her pilgimages to the Coushata Reservation Casino. That gets her out of the house for at least 24 hours."

"Sounds like a plan. Pull your skirt back down over your behind and let's get over to the high school."

Outside the highschool, they paused for a moment, while Xander looked around nostalgically. "This is where it all started."

"I'm not really up on canon. Did the very first episode take place in the high school?"

"That's not what I meant. I meant you're odyssey."

"Oh. Well, it's not like it's anything of great importance or significance..." Xander was pointing to a sizeable marble slab she hadn't noticed before. "What's that?"

"Take a look."

She peered at it more closely. There was a brass plaque on it, engraved. "On this spot, Friday, December 15th, the year 2000, aproximately midnight, Scibe's fine butt landed on MarySue soil for the first time. And there was great horniess in the land, and the characters of, lo, many and diverse fandoms did rejoice, saying to one another, "Yea, we can finally tear off a piece." And, eventually, it was so. See related plaque at Highland Cottage. Beware of pissed off and sexually frustrated Immortal, though."

She stood back, stunned. "Son of a bitch. You mean...?"

Her nodded. "Yup. Got your own monument, kiddo."

"It's official. You're all nuts."

"Hey, we never tried to deny it. C'mon."

The wad of paper and chewing gum was still holding the door open. The place was still spooky as hell as they crept down the corridor to the library. Scribe kept a cautious eye out for horny, frustrated, and possibly vengeful teenage females. *They're bound to have figured out I'm not coming back with the pom poms by now.* She thought a minute. *Well, Buffy might not have.*

Giles was sitting at the desk again. She assumed it was Giles, since he was back in tweeds. "Hey, Giles. I need to have a serious discussion with you."

He gave her a distressed look. "Oh, boy!"

She started, peering at him. "Wait a minute." She located a framed certificate for best summer reading program on the wall, turned the desk lamp on it, and held it up in front of the librarian, peering at the polished surface.

That wasn't Giles she saw looking back at her.

"Sunuvabitch! I knew they were writing Quantum Leap fic, but I didn't expect to run into you here, Sam."

Sam/Giles peered at his reflection. "You can see me? Usually no one else sees me as myself."

"Well, I appear to be a unique individual."

"To say the least," Xander chimed in. "Scribe, what the hell are you and Giles talking about?"

"This ain't Giles, Xander."

Xander examined Sam/Giles. "Doppleganger?"

"Nope."

"Hmm. Clone?"

"Nuh uh."

"Android?"

"Nah."

"He's not possessed is he?"

"Uhhh. Kinda. He's been sorta... leaped."

Xander frowned. "Well, duh! Every male in fan fic gets leaped at one time or another. I, myself, have been leaped more times than a hurdle at the Olympics."

"Not that kind of leaped, Xander."

Light dawned. "Sam Becket?" Sam/Giles twiddled his fingers sheepishly. "Shit! That Al guy isn't getting ready to, like, goose Scribe or anything, is he?"

Scribe shook her head. "To begins with, Xander, he's a hologram. That means he can't... Yipe!" She jumped and whirled, looking around, wide eyed. "That means I need to remember that the only rule in this universe is Get the author. Dammit, Al! Warm your hands, or keep 'em to yourself!"

"Where's Giles?" Xander asked.

"He's back in the waiting room. Last I heard he was trying to put the moves on Gooshie. Al..." He looked around. "Have you figured out why I'm here yet?"

Al shimmered into sight. "Before you ask, no that was not my virginity renewing." He winked at Scribe. "Ain't been a virgin for a long time, Toots. If I was a little more solid, I'd show ya."

"Terrific. A lecherous three-dimensional image consisting of the pattern of interference formed by a split laser beam illuminated with either a laser or an ordinary light is propositioning me."

Al grinned and grabbed his crotch. "I got your third dimension right here, lady."

"Al, quit screwing around. Why am I here?"

"Well, Ziggy says that there's a 99.9 per cent chance that you're here to help her..." he pointed at Scribe, "Get her fine butt back to her own universe."

Sam looked at Scribe consideringly. He looked at Al. "What's the other .1 percent?"

Scribe stomped her foot. "Sam!"

"No, really, I think we should examine all the possibilities. Of course, it may take some time for Ziggy to come up with an answer I'll accep... I mean, the right answer." He patted his knee. "You look tired. Why don't you come sit down."

She looked at Xander. "Xander, where did you locate that spell in the first place?"

"C'mon."

Part 15

Xander led Scribe back into the stacks. "Yo, Xander? Shouldn't we be leaving bread crumbs or something? These aisles tend to do the reality shift thing on a pretty regular basis."

"The only thing we have around here that remotely resembles bread crumbs would be Pop Tarts. A, you ate all of them already..."

"You helped."

"...and B, you would eat them as fast as I dropped them."

"True. So where is this magical books section?"

"Spelled m-a-j-i-k-a-l, Scribe."

"Right, like Crystal is spelled K-r-y-s-t-a-h-l-l-e. And I wasn't spelling it, I was saying it."

"Um, Scribe?" He looked pointedly at the type appearing on the word processor monitor.

"Oh, for God's sake, Harris! Don't start that different levels of reality irony bullshit with me now! Just find the freakin' weird stuff section!"

"Okay. There's one sure way of having it show up." He cleared his throat and spoke clearly and slowly to the ceiling. "Oh gosh, Scribe. We're lost." He motioned to her.

She shrugged, playing along. In an equally false tone she said, "Xander! What are we going to do? We are, like, sooo lost."

"I don't know, Scribe. We'll never find that hidden section of books on magic. I just give up." And he leaned back against a section of wall...

...which swung back to dump him into a teeny, dark, dusty room.

He stood up, dusting himself off. "Works every time. Come on."

Scribe started to enter the secret room. But just outside she paused, looked up, and said in a thick Teutonic accent, "Put--ze kendle--beck!"

Xander considered looking at her like she was crazy, considered her usual behaviour, and decided that it would be redundant. "What are you doing?"

She shrugged, smiling, "Quick, obscure Mel Brooks movie reference."

Xander's eyes got big in understanding. "God, I love you!" He looked up and yelled, "Blucher!" From somewhere in the distance there was a blast of thunder and the screams of terrified horses. They both giggled madly.

*snort* "All right. Should I be careful about touching anything in here?"

"Um... Well, if it's smoking or moving, I'd say hands off."

"Sounds reasonable."

She stepped up to one case and started reading titles. "Thaumaturgy Made Easy. Advanced Alchemy. Know Your Demons. How to Win Friends, and Sell Their Souls for Fun and Profit. Hey, Lindsey MacDonald co-authored that one! Cut-rate Crystal Power. The Mystical Properties of Disgusting Household Items: or, Don't Throw That Mystery Tupperware Load Away! Harry Potter and the Canivorous, Canibalistic Faerie Tribe... Good gravy, he's everywhere."

"Tell me about it. Horny little booger, too, once they've aged him up a couple of years. Wears out poor ol' Ron."

"What about Malfoy?"

"I think Draco has something going with Lestat. You know how pale he always is, and the vamps aren't always real careful about the age thing. I think age is a difficult concept for them."

They kept digging through the volumes, never pausing except to jetison the book on sexual drawing spells that tried to hump Scribe's leg. Scribe caught Xander reading a book on virility spells and took it away from him. "Damn, are you trying to kill me?! Are you never satisfied?" He looked at her. "Oh. Sorry. Stupid question."

Finally Scribe found a hefty volume entitled Convenient Plot Devices. "Heeeeey! Here we go. Lessee... Escape, escape, escape... Ah. Air ducts, Alleyways, Breaking Through Doors, Catwalks, Dimensional Rifts. Dimensional Rifts, To and From. Okay, From." (flip flip) "Hm. Look behind the Book of Magical Fashions on the third shelf."

Xander lifted down a large, coffee-table style book and rummaged behind it, then brough out what he found and showed them to Scribe.

She stared at them, blinking at the crimson sparkles that bounced off, even in the dim light that seeped in from the outside. "Oh, hell no! Xander, I've been running through all three of these series barefooted. I do not feel like going formal at this late stage."

He shrugged. "You can always stay here. I'm sure Sam and Al are waiting up at the front desk, and Angelus is bound to have woken up by now, and he probably went and let Spike out of the coffin..."

"How do you know about all this?" He pointed out to the monitor. "Uh huh. Damn different levels of reality. Okay, gimme."

Xander handed them over. Scribe peered inside. "Size 10. They should fit, since I'm not wearing socks." She slipped them on. "Okay, I'm ready."

"Wait!" Xander draped himself over her, arms around her neck. "Now you can try it."

Scribe sighed. "I feel like such a freakin' dork. Well, put my hair in pigtails and call me Dorothy." She clicked the heels of the ruby slippers together three times. "There's no place like home. There's no place like home. There's no place like the double-wide, there's no place like home..."

The transfer was not the abrupt jarring thump that it had been. Her surroundings seemed to just sort of fade away, then come back into focus. But this time she was in her own bedroom, instead of a tiny hidden room.

But she still had Xander Harris hanging on to her. "Did we make it?" he asked.

"I don't know. I thought I had last time. We'd better go check."

It wasn't all that easy to walk with Harris following her in lock-step, now with his arms around her waist. The house looked normal. No Mountie or wolf in the living room. Just the weiner dog, and her Mom.

Scribe almost wilted in relief. "Mom, am I glad to see you!"

"I was just on my way out for a trip to the Coushatta Reservation. I... um... hear that their doing tribal dances today. Yeah, dances. Scribe? Honey, is there any reason why you're wearing a cheerleader outfit."

"Um... research?"

"Okay." (pause) "Is there any reason why you have a teenage boy plastered up against your butt?"

"Inspiration."

"Uh huh."

"He'll be staying here for awhile."

"Uh huh."

"I'm probably going to have a lot more visitors in the future, Mom. Don't worry. I'll have them bring groceries."

"All right, but something besides Pop Tarts, okay dear?"

"'kay."

Her Mom left. Xander was wandering around the house. "So, this is Real Life."

"What passes for it, yeah."

"Pretty nice." He came over and honked her breast. "Why don't we celebrate your return?"

"Incorrigible. Look it up."

There was a knock on the door. A bit more cautious now, Scribe put on the chain before opening it. "Yes?"

A hand thrust in, showing a flip open, official looking ID. "FBI, ma'am. I had a report that something really weird happened here that might be considered what we call an X File."

She peeked through the crack. "Mulder?"

A bright hazel eye peeked back at her. "Hey, Scribe. You ran off without getting to me. I feel neglected, and you know how angsty I am to start with. I got so irritating that Dana told me to go out and get laid. Soooooo...."

"How did you...?"

"Who the hell else would be more qualified to figure out how to work the dimensional rift scam? Gonna let me in, or do I have to find one that leads to your bedroom directly?"

Scribe looked at Xander. "I kind of have someone here now."

"Who?"

"Xander Harris. You mind?"

"Are you kidding? He's almost as notorious... I mean famous as Blair Sandburg." Xander grinned, and smoothed down his hair.

"Hmm. If I time this right, I may be able to get a nap. Okay."

Scribe opened the door. "You two fellas go ahead and get acquainted. I need to go look at my Bartlett's Familiar Quotations. These past experiences remind me of a quote of some sort, but for the life of me, I can't remember what it is..."

Moral: Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it.

The End