Spike paced across the wood floor of his apartment. He felt like all he’d done in the past ten hours was pace, talk on the phone, pace some more, all with no progress. His current conversation was with the brick wall that was Rupert Giles.
“How the bloody hell should I know where he is Dad? Doesn’t Jenny know? I don’t know.” Spike stared across the room at the little girl sitting in the corner in front of the television. The Disney Channel flickered across the screen -- a channel Spike didn’t even know was included in his digital cable package until a couple hours ago when he was searching for something suitable for a three year old. She had fallen asleep on the car ride home and had only recently wakened. She again held her doll to her chest. “She’s just sitting here, dad,” he whispered into the phone, like she was some alien martian come down from space that he didn’t want to alert.
With all he knew about kids, she might as well have been.
A more refined British accent echoed through the phone, “Well until we can find another solution you have some decisions to make. You cannot raise a child in L.A,” he admonished.
Spike pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at it like it’d just sprouted a mouth and was singing show tunes at him, “Who said anything about raising her?” Spike asked his father.
“Spike, when you agreed to take the child in, you agreed to take the place of her father, even if it is only for the time being. But I think you would agree that it would be best at this time to think long term.”
“Angel was raising her in this city, why can’t I?” Spike pouted, unwilling to have this kid completely disrupt his life and uproot him altogether.
“I don’t know if you can call what Angel was doing a proper job. He always had his priorities . . . askew.”
“And here I always thought you said I was the irresponsible one,” Spike grumbled, continuing to prowl a safe distance away from the baby.
“When it comes to women, yes, but you have always, shall I say ‘stepped up to the plate’ when called upon. And we are counting on you now, William,” his father pleaded. “Being in England, neither Jenny nor myself can be there to help you right now.”
“Dad, I have a job! I have a life!”
“And now you have a child who needs to begin preschool in the fall,” Giles stated firmly.
“I had to take her! They would have put her in some foster home if I hadn’t!”
“And right there you have shown more concern for this child’s well-being than her own father -- proving you a suitable guardian. You write novels, William, you can do that anywhere.”
His father’s comment on his job just made him anger more, “But my editor is in L.A.!”
“If I have learned nothing from your stepmother in the years we’ve been married, it is the power of the computer. E-mail, Will, use it.”
“Dad, I think we’re missing the point, that being what do I know about raising a kid?”
“I’m sure if you put your mind to it you will find yourself more than capable.”
“She wasn’t left with an instruction manual, dad, all Angel left her with was a bag of clothes and a couple dolls.” In his frustration, Spike’s voice raised and he swung at the papers stacked on his table -- the outlines of his newest novel. The baby raised her head in alarm. Spike quickly shot her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes in order to not upset her. The child didn’t seem any more convinced than he was.
“I’m afraid to touch her -- like I’m going to break her,” Spike said miserably.
“I assure you that you won’t.” Giles seem to reconsider, “On second thought, perhaps you should hire a nanny.”
“I can handle it,” Spike growled, never in his life having accepted help from outsiders before. And if his dad knew how to rile him up, it was in suggesting that Spike had an inability to do something himself. “I have dealt with fussy publishers and fought with editors. I think I can handle a three year old.”
“Well,” Giles stated, satisfied, “That was a quick about-face. Now,” he began, not planning on leaving his son with no hints whatsoever, “the last time I talked to Angel, Lisa was more or less trained to use the loo but was still wearing training pants in case of accidents. Have you checked her diaper?”
“Her what!?” Spike sputtered, “You can’t expect me to . . . I’ve never . . . .” Spike sighed in defeat, “okay I’m on it.”
“Now, I’ve talked to a friend of mine. A Joyce Summers. She’s helped Jenny and I acquire some rather rare art. She lives only a few hours away . . .” Spike heard a rustling of papers on the England end, “place called Sunnydale,” Giles read off a scrap of paper. “Well,” his father stated brightly, “that sounds like a lovely place does it not?”
Spike refrained from telling his father just what he really thought of a place called, of all things, Sunnydale.
“She’s raised two daughters there quite successfully and I’m sure would be more than eager to help you. There are some homes available nearby, all within walking distance of the local elementary school.”
“Dad, for the last time -- I am not moving!”
TWO WEEKS LATER . . .
Spike stood outside the modest two floor, two bedroom, two bathroom home, squinting his eyes against the sun.
A home that was now his.
And Lisa’s, temporarily.
The baby in question, who had been content to wonder around the home’s perimeters, chasing butterflies that escaped from what was left of the previous owner’s garden, came to rest beside him.
Scooping up his niece, Spike moved his free hand to her forehead, shielding her delicate eyes from the morning rays.
The movers had hauled in the last of the boxes and had left Spike and Lisa in the yard to face the intimidating house alone.
Spike looked down at the baby in his arms before looking back up at the house looming over them.
Spike sighed, “Home sweet home.”
TBC
Monday, June 9, 2008
Spuffy: Someday, Much More Chapter One
TITLE: Someday, Much More
RATING: PG-13 (may be a hard R in places, I'll warn when it is)
SUMMARY: Spike Giles’s brother, Angel, skips town, leaving him with a little girl and a big responsibility. Forced to give up his big-city L.A. life, he meets a small-town girl who could be his saving grace.
A/N: Even though this story is based on Kevin Hill and the movie Big Daddy, I’ve never seen the show and I’ve only watched the movie once, so I’m thinking this is going to be extremely loosely based. I got the idea from reading a description of the plot of the UPN show Kevin Hill, thought I’ve never seen the show. Therefore any similarities are extremely coincidental.
CHAPTER 1 --
“Bloody hell, ow!” Spike Giles sidestepped a pile of laundry lying randomly on the floor, narrowly missing breaking his neck, as he jumped out of the shower, towel wrapped haphazardly around his waist and loose blonde curls dripping as he dove for the phone as it rang for the fourth time.
“Hello,” he answered, taking a smaller towel and rubbing it against his head.
“William Giles?” the matronly woman on the other end gave him a moment to deny it. When he didn’t, she continued. “This is Marianne Stewart, from Child Services.”
“Yeah?” he answered perplexed, trying to wrap his head around why in the world Child Services would be calling him. He mentally Rolodexed the women he’d slept with over the years and any chance one of his many couplings could have resulted in pregnancy. He couldn’t come up with a single time he hadn’t taken the utmost precaution.
“You are the brother of Liam O’Connor am I correct?” the woman asked, the name thankfully jerking him out of his previous line of thinking.
“Stepbrother,” Spike answered automatically. “My father married his mother, but yeah, we’re related,” he finished, separating himself from the other boy who was unwillingly joined within the same family when Rupert Giles married Jenny Calendar twenty years ago. By making this distinction, Spike deflected any blame that could be thrown at him for his stepbrother’s actions – a defense mechanism he picked up in boyhood but habitually kept, even though it might have made more sense had Spike not been the one getting in trouble all the time, hence the apt nicknames.
“It appears Mr. O’Connor has left the immediate area indefinitely,” commented the woman on the phone.
“Appears? Where’d he go?” Spike’s brow furrowed, not really concerned with Angel’s whereabouts, but taken aback that he hadn’t heard about it through his father. Though the move didn’t exactly surprise him; a martyr when it came to his work, his older stepbrother abruptly moving for the sake of some legal case he was overseeing would hardly shock anyone.
But what this had to do with Child Services was beyond him. If Angel and his on again and off again girlfriend, Darla, were having disputes over their kid again, why were they calling him? Why should they drag him into their ongoing drama? If he remembered correctly, Angel had requested Spike NOT be called as a character witness in their last custody battle.
“I’m afraid no one knows Mr. O’Connor’s whereabouts.” The woman paused. “But we do have the issue of the child involved, a Lisa O’Connor.” She hesitated before the name, pronouncing it clinically, like she was checking the name off a paper in front of her, lest she confuse it with the hundreds of other children she dealt with on a daily basis.
“My niece,” Spike answered, getting the feeling like this was a one-sided conversation and he was the uninformed, being blindly led by the woman’s questions.
“You would not by any chance know where the birth mother is?”
“Darla?” Spike shook his head, “No. In the past two years I’ve only seen Angel a handful of times. I’ve seen the mother and the kid less than that.”
“Angel?” the woman questioned.
“A nickname,” he answered. “But what does this have to do with me?” He ran his fingers through his drenched hair, checking the clock on his apartment’s living room wall. He was going to be late for his date with that brunette he met at Lorne’s last week.
“Well, Mr. Giles, as the parents of the child were not married and Mr. O’Connor had full custody this changes some things. The mother could not be contacted and you are named next of kin for Liam O’Connor. The child is now in your custody.”
“What?” he sputtered. His mind went to the baby that he’d seen a couple of years ago at his father and stepmother’s house in England. He had a hard time picturing her face it was so long ago. All he remembered is that the kid had puked on him, not leaving him with a favorable impression of his brother’s brat. He was still trying to wrap his mind around Angel considering him worthy enough to take care of his kid should something happen by naming him next of kin.
Now apparently something had happened.
“Wait, isn’t Lisa with him?” Spike asked, wanting clarification. Granted, from what Spike had heard from his father, Angel may not win any parent of the year awards, but certainly if he up and moved he would have taken his three year old daughter with him.
“No. Lisa was left at our facility late last night.” The woman continued to talk, but Spike heard none of it. This couldn’t be real. Those next of kin things are never taken seriously are they? You only use ’em when you die and you don’t want your money squandered away by an alcoholic uncle. The lady’s voice broke into his thoughts, “You have some decisions to make Mr. Giles. Shall we keep her here with us or . . .”
“No!” he shouted into the phone, shaking his head. “No,” he repeated more calmly, “I’ll . . . I’ll be right there.”
Two hours later, after getting lost a multitude of times, fiddling with his navigation system, finding the Child Services building, and filling out mountains upon mountains of paperwork, Spike felt lucky he had remembered to put on pants. Now he stood face to . . . knee with his niece.
Ms. Stewart was more than eager to see them off, practically throwing them out of her office as her next appointment came rushing in.
The little girl looked up at him expectantly. She hadn’t said a word through the entire ordeal. Her dark brown hair hung loosely about her, almost reaching her waist, the sides were pulled back in a miniature clip with a butterfly on it, which matched her purple jumper with a corresponding insect. She clutched a Raggedy Ann doll to her chest.
Spike tilted his head to his niece standing three feet from the ground:
“Well, kid, now what?”
TBC
RATING: PG-13 (may be a hard R in places, I'll warn when it is)
SUMMARY: Spike Giles’s brother, Angel, skips town, leaving him with a little girl and a big responsibility. Forced to give up his big-city L.A. life, he meets a small-town girl who could be his saving grace.
A/N: Even though this story is based on Kevin Hill and the movie Big Daddy, I’ve never seen the show and I’ve only watched the movie once, so I’m thinking this is going to be extremely loosely based. I got the idea from reading a description of the plot of the UPN show Kevin Hill, thought I’ve never seen the show. Therefore any similarities are extremely coincidental.
CHAPTER 1 --
“Bloody hell, ow!” Spike Giles sidestepped a pile of laundry lying randomly on the floor, narrowly missing breaking his neck, as he jumped out of the shower, towel wrapped haphazardly around his waist and loose blonde curls dripping as he dove for the phone as it rang for the fourth time.
“Hello,” he answered, taking a smaller towel and rubbing it against his head.
“William Giles?” the matronly woman on the other end gave him a moment to deny it. When he didn’t, she continued. “This is Marianne Stewart, from Child Services.”
“Yeah?” he answered perplexed, trying to wrap his head around why in the world Child Services would be calling him. He mentally Rolodexed the women he’d slept with over the years and any chance one of his many couplings could have resulted in pregnancy. He couldn’t come up with a single time he hadn’t taken the utmost precaution.
“You are the brother of Liam O’Connor am I correct?” the woman asked, the name thankfully jerking him out of his previous line of thinking.
“Stepbrother,” Spike answered automatically. “My father married his mother, but yeah, we’re related,” he finished, separating himself from the other boy who was unwillingly joined within the same family when Rupert Giles married Jenny Calendar twenty years ago. By making this distinction, Spike deflected any blame that could be thrown at him for his stepbrother’s actions – a defense mechanism he picked up in boyhood but habitually kept, even though it might have made more sense had Spike not been the one getting in trouble all the time, hence the apt nicknames.
“It appears Mr. O’Connor has left the immediate area indefinitely,” commented the woman on the phone.
“Appears? Where’d he go?” Spike’s brow furrowed, not really concerned with Angel’s whereabouts, but taken aback that he hadn’t heard about it through his father. Though the move didn’t exactly surprise him; a martyr when it came to his work, his older stepbrother abruptly moving for the sake of some legal case he was overseeing would hardly shock anyone.
But what this had to do with Child Services was beyond him. If Angel and his on again and off again girlfriend, Darla, were having disputes over their kid again, why were they calling him? Why should they drag him into their ongoing drama? If he remembered correctly, Angel had requested Spike NOT be called as a character witness in their last custody battle.
“I’m afraid no one knows Mr. O’Connor’s whereabouts.” The woman paused. “But we do have the issue of the child involved, a Lisa O’Connor.” She hesitated before the name, pronouncing it clinically, like she was checking the name off a paper in front of her, lest she confuse it with the hundreds of other children she dealt with on a daily basis.
“My niece,” Spike answered, getting the feeling like this was a one-sided conversation and he was the uninformed, being blindly led by the woman’s questions.
“You would not by any chance know where the birth mother is?”
“Darla?” Spike shook his head, “No. In the past two years I’ve only seen Angel a handful of times. I’ve seen the mother and the kid less than that.”
“Angel?” the woman questioned.
“A nickname,” he answered. “But what does this have to do with me?” He ran his fingers through his drenched hair, checking the clock on his apartment’s living room wall. He was going to be late for his date with that brunette he met at Lorne’s last week.
“Well, Mr. Giles, as the parents of the child were not married and Mr. O’Connor had full custody this changes some things. The mother could not be contacted and you are named next of kin for Liam O’Connor. The child is now in your custody.”
“What?” he sputtered. His mind went to the baby that he’d seen a couple of years ago at his father and stepmother’s house in England. He had a hard time picturing her face it was so long ago. All he remembered is that the kid had puked on him, not leaving him with a favorable impression of his brother’s brat. He was still trying to wrap his mind around Angel considering him worthy enough to take care of his kid should something happen by naming him next of kin.
Now apparently something had happened.
“Wait, isn’t Lisa with him?” Spike asked, wanting clarification. Granted, from what Spike had heard from his father, Angel may not win any parent of the year awards, but certainly if he up and moved he would have taken his three year old daughter with him.
“No. Lisa was left at our facility late last night.” The woman continued to talk, but Spike heard none of it. This couldn’t be real. Those next of kin things are never taken seriously are they? You only use ’em when you die and you don’t want your money squandered away by an alcoholic uncle. The lady’s voice broke into his thoughts, “You have some decisions to make Mr. Giles. Shall we keep her here with us or . . .”
“No!” he shouted into the phone, shaking his head. “No,” he repeated more calmly, “I’ll . . . I’ll be right there.”
Two hours later, after getting lost a multitude of times, fiddling with his navigation system, finding the Child Services building, and filling out mountains upon mountains of paperwork, Spike felt lucky he had remembered to put on pants. Now he stood face to . . . knee with his niece.
Ms. Stewart was more than eager to see them off, practically throwing them out of her office as her next appointment came rushing in.
The little girl looked up at him expectantly. She hadn’t said a word through the entire ordeal. Her dark brown hair hung loosely about her, almost reaching her waist, the sides were pulled back in a miniature clip with a butterfly on it, which matched her purple jumper with a corresponding insect. She clutched a Raggedy Ann doll to her chest.
Spike tilted his head to his niece standing three feet from the ground:
“Well, kid, now what?”
TBC
Sunday, June 8, 2008
CI: Take Me Anywhere Chapter Four
“Agh!”
Goren cautiously followed the exasperated echoed tones he recognized as Alex’s down the hall and around the corner. When he had arrived that morning, instead of getting the itinerary of her schedule, like he normally did, he was told cryptically by the secretary that he would “find her in the third ballroom.” Goren didn’t like when he didn’t get concrete answers to his questions, and he would have been concerned if it weren’t for the gleam in the eye and half smile of the woman.
Alex didn’t know he received daily printouts of her schedule, which covered her whereabouts for not only every waking second, but her sleeping arrangements as well. They also told him who she’d be with at all times. In addition he regularly viewed the phone records that tracked incoming and outgoing calls, looking for patterns and suspicious area codes. These printouts gave him a plethora of information: That Alex did not have a significant other nor was she dating. And that she cleared out time in her schedule, almost every day, to call her father’s family in New York to speak with her aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews. She was big on getting her required eight hours sleep and didn’t sacrifice those precious hours for anyone, least of all royalty-related activities – “high-heel boot camp training”, she called it.
After a long discussion and for convenience’s sake she had at least been convinced to leave her apartment and sleep in her room in the castle instead. “Sleep” being the operative word because she refused to give up her old place, despite the rent. Goren noted that soon he have to go over her apartment to get the layout – map out entrances and exits -- should anything ever happen. He’d been given the key to her apartment by her father, but he didn’t feel right using it to break in. He needed to get Alex’s okay first, or at least be invited.
Bobby gingerly approached the ballroom, where music (something from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons Concertos, if he wasn’t mistaken) was wafting out of a phonograph Goren was sure they stopped making in 1848. He waved back a few household helpers who were finding enjoyment in eavesdropping and peered around the door, not allowing his full body to come into view.
Alex and a man of a dignified sixty stood in the center of the vast floor, the design on which was spiraled like the yellow brick road. The man had his right hand on her waist, which Goren could tell she didn’t like by the barely hidden distaste on her face and stiffness of her posture, which Bobby could tell wasn’t just for the sake of proper form. The man’s left hand was joined in hers, held out to their side.
She was wearing a zip-up hoodie, jeans, and delicate heels that glinted when the light from the tall windows hit them just so. Every few moments, Alex would wrench her hand out of the gentleman’s to yank at the bottom of the sweatshirt, which kept riding up, exposing the bare skin of her hip to his instructing touch. When she did this, she would shortly lose her focus and wobble on her heels before quickly righting herself.
“Your Highness. . .” the man insisted, exasperated, sounding to Goren like he was yet again starting in on an argument that they’d had before.
“Alex,” she insisted a little more forcefully than she might of had she not been stressed and frustrated. Bobby got the sense this was not the first time she’d had to tell the man to call her something other than “Your Highness.”
Neither of them looked particularly happy to be there.
“Perhaps we should call it a day,” offered the man.
“Perhaps we should,” repeated Alex in an overly chipper imitation of his stiff accent, forcibly shrugging off his hands.
The man quickly gathered himself and heeled it out of the room.
Bobby entered, watching Alex take deep breaths and fiddle with her high heels that looked to be giving her blisters. She hopped on one heel and mouthed “Ow” a few times.
“What was that all about?” he ventured, bending at the waist to follow the man out of the room.
Alex spun to face him. “Dancing,” she spat, unconcerned with Bobby’s sudden appearance. On the contrary, even only after a few days, Alex had come to accept him as just an aspect of her life, one she expected even. She’d even caught herself seeking him out in a room once or twice, which momentarily disconcerted her for a bevy of reasons. “I have to learn to dance,” she motioned to the music that was wafting from the record player “because apparently this country has yet to come into the twenty-first century,” she yelled out to where the man had just existed. “And me and Jeeves there don’t exactly get along,” she hitched her thumb to where the man had stood.
Goren smiled, nodding in understanding. “It’s not that hard,” he commented, walking further onto the floor.
Alex turned her bad mood onto him, putting her hands on her waist, “Oh yeah, hot shot? You going to tell me that in one of those many places you’re from you were a competitive flamingo dancer?”
Goren grinned at her, “Not exactly,” he shrugged, “I just like to dance.”
She folded her arms, “Well so do I but this isn’t exactly ABBA, now is it?”
He approached her and despite the strange look she gave him, took her in his arms. Her arms automatically joined his in the now engrained position. “Now, what have you learned so far?” he asked, looking down at her.
Alex blanched but quickly recovered, “Something that had a one-two-three, one-two-three in it,” not objecting that he hadn’t done the formal ask and bow first and instead had been so bold as to simply take hold of her.
Bobby nodded, “A minuet,” he commented, “which is strange because a minuet is usually the third movement in a symphony or string quartet,” he ruminated aloud. Her brows arched in an are-you-kidding-me look he was beginning to recognize, “Right,” he quickly amended, looking down at his feet, “not relevant. Okay, we can start there.”
The record player skipped for a moment, and then a simple violin began to echo against the walls; a much less intimidating tune. Bobby gently pushed her away and made an exaggerated bow. Alex laughed despite herself, the first real laugh she could remember in days, and made a curtsy of her own. Bobby was glad to see her smile as they met again in the middle of the floor.
As he slowly moved them in circles, he could feel her body clench, her face contorted with concentration. “Don’t count,” Bobby interrupted her, causing her to glance up from where she was watching her feet, “Don’t count,” he insisted, shaking his head. “Just move with me.”
“Easier said than done,” she grumbled, trying to will her muscles to relax. Alex’s natural inclination was not to be led.
He leaned in much closer than Jeeves had and spoke softly into her ear, her forehead brushed his chest, “You gotta trust me, Alex,” she closed her eyes at the feeling of his breath on her skin, the slight plead in his deep timbre. “Let me lead. Don’t try to be three steps ahead of me.”
Alex couldn’t help but smile at the mere thought of it, “I doubt anybody has ever been three steps ahead of you at anything.”
She breathed deep and exhaled slowly, letting go – letting all of it go – and just moved. He turned them in patterns she hadn’t even learned yet, patterns she probably would have deemed too difficult, but with him – when they moved together – they weren’t. He didn’t even keep hold of her the whole time. He’d gently let go, smoothly advancing her into a spin, finishing with her back pressed against his chest. She arched her neck back towards him, almost to question the closeness of their bodies, but before she could fully form the thought in her head, he’d spin her out again, moving them with more refinement than she thought she was capable of and with more grace than a man of his stature ought to have.
As the last notes trickled from the antique machine he spun her, one last time, gracefully away from him.
When their eyes met, Bobby bowed again, “Thank you for the dance, Your Highness.” With a gentle smile he swept out of the room, leaving Alex in a considerably better mood. She hadn’t even noticed to object when he called her “Your Highness.”
TBC
Goren cautiously followed the exasperated echoed tones he recognized as Alex’s down the hall and around the corner. When he had arrived that morning, instead of getting the itinerary of her schedule, like he normally did, he was told cryptically by the secretary that he would “find her in the third ballroom.” Goren didn’t like when he didn’t get concrete answers to his questions, and he would have been concerned if it weren’t for the gleam in the eye and half smile of the woman.
Alex didn’t know he received daily printouts of her schedule, which covered her whereabouts for not only every waking second, but her sleeping arrangements as well. They also told him who she’d be with at all times. In addition he regularly viewed the phone records that tracked incoming and outgoing calls, looking for patterns and suspicious area codes. These printouts gave him a plethora of information: That Alex did not have a significant other nor was she dating. And that she cleared out time in her schedule, almost every day, to call her father’s family in New York to speak with her aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews. She was big on getting her required eight hours sleep and didn’t sacrifice those precious hours for anyone, least of all royalty-related activities – “high-heel boot camp training”, she called it.
After a long discussion and for convenience’s sake she had at least been convinced to leave her apartment and sleep in her room in the castle instead. “Sleep” being the operative word because she refused to give up her old place, despite the rent. Goren noted that soon he have to go over her apartment to get the layout – map out entrances and exits -- should anything ever happen. He’d been given the key to her apartment by her father, but he didn’t feel right using it to break in. He needed to get Alex’s okay first, or at least be invited.
Bobby gingerly approached the ballroom, where music (something from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons Concertos, if he wasn’t mistaken) was wafting out of a phonograph Goren was sure they stopped making in 1848. He waved back a few household helpers who were finding enjoyment in eavesdropping and peered around the door, not allowing his full body to come into view.
Alex and a man of a dignified sixty stood in the center of the vast floor, the design on which was spiraled like the yellow brick road. The man had his right hand on her waist, which Goren could tell she didn’t like by the barely hidden distaste on her face and stiffness of her posture, which Bobby could tell wasn’t just for the sake of proper form. The man’s left hand was joined in hers, held out to their side.
She was wearing a zip-up hoodie, jeans, and delicate heels that glinted when the light from the tall windows hit them just so. Every few moments, Alex would wrench her hand out of the gentleman’s to yank at the bottom of the sweatshirt, which kept riding up, exposing the bare skin of her hip to his instructing touch. When she did this, she would shortly lose her focus and wobble on her heels before quickly righting herself.
“Your Highness. . .” the man insisted, exasperated, sounding to Goren like he was yet again starting in on an argument that they’d had before.
“Alex,” she insisted a little more forcefully than she might of had she not been stressed and frustrated. Bobby got the sense this was not the first time she’d had to tell the man to call her something other than “Your Highness.”
Neither of them looked particularly happy to be there.
“Perhaps we should call it a day,” offered the man.
“Perhaps we should,” repeated Alex in an overly chipper imitation of his stiff accent, forcibly shrugging off his hands.
The man quickly gathered himself and heeled it out of the room.
Bobby entered, watching Alex take deep breaths and fiddle with her high heels that looked to be giving her blisters. She hopped on one heel and mouthed “Ow” a few times.
“What was that all about?” he ventured, bending at the waist to follow the man out of the room.
Alex spun to face him. “Dancing,” she spat, unconcerned with Bobby’s sudden appearance. On the contrary, even only after a few days, Alex had come to accept him as just an aspect of her life, one she expected even. She’d even caught herself seeking him out in a room once or twice, which momentarily disconcerted her for a bevy of reasons. “I have to learn to dance,” she motioned to the music that was wafting from the record player “because apparently this country has yet to come into the twenty-first century,” she yelled out to where the man had just existed. “And me and Jeeves there don’t exactly get along,” she hitched her thumb to where the man had stood.
Goren smiled, nodding in understanding. “It’s not that hard,” he commented, walking further onto the floor.
Alex turned her bad mood onto him, putting her hands on her waist, “Oh yeah, hot shot? You going to tell me that in one of those many places you’re from you were a competitive flamingo dancer?”
Goren grinned at her, “Not exactly,” he shrugged, “I just like to dance.”
She folded her arms, “Well so do I but this isn’t exactly ABBA, now is it?”
He approached her and despite the strange look she gave him, took her in his arms. Her arms automatically joined his in the now engrained position. “Now, what have you learned so far?” he asked, looking down at her.
Alex blanched but quickly recovered, “Something that had a one-two-three, one-two-three in it,” not objecting that he hadn’t done the formal ask and bow first and instead had been so bold as to simply take hold of her.
Bobby nodded, “A minuet,” he commented, “which is strange because a minuet is usually the third movement in a symphony or string quartet,” he ruminated aloud. Her brows arched in an are-you-kidding-me look he was beginning to recognize, “Right,” he quickly amended, looking down at his feet, “not relevant. Okay, we can start there.”
The record player skipped for a moment, and then a simple violin began to echo against the walls; a much less intimidating tune. Bobby gently pushed her away and made an exaggerated bow. Alex laughed despite herself, the first real laugh she could remember in days, and made a curtsy of her own. Bobby was glad to see her smile as they met again in the middle of the floor.
As he slowly moved them in circles, he could feel her body clench, her face contorted with concentration. “Don’t count,” Bobby interrupted her, causing her to glance up from where she was watching her feet, “Don’t count,” he insisted, shaking his head. “Just move with me.”
“Easier said than done,” she grumbled, trying to will her muscles to relax. Alex’s natural inclination was not to be led.
He leaned in much closer than Jeeves had and spoke softly into her ear, her forehead brushed his chest, “You gotta trust me, Alex,” she closed her eyes at the feeling of his breath on her skin, the slight plead in his deep timbre. “Let me lead. Don’t try to be three steps ahead of me.”
Alex couldn’t help but smile at the mere thought of it, “I doubt anybody has ever been three steps ahead of you at anything.”
She breathed deep and exhaled slowly, letting go – letting all of it go – and just moved. He turned them in patterns she hadn’t even learned yet, patterns she probably would have deemed too difficult, but with him – when they moved together – they weren’t. He didn’t even keep hold of her the whole time. He’d gently let go, smoothly advancing her into a spin, finishing with her back pressed against his chest. She arched her neck back towards him, almost to question the closeness of their bodies, but before she could fully form the thought in her head, he’d spin her out again, moving them with more refinement than she thought she was capable of and with more grace than a man of his stature ought to have.
As the last notes trickled from the antique machine he spun her, one last time, gracefully away from him.
When their eyes met, Bobby bowed again, “Thank you for the dance, Your Highness.” With a gentle smile he swept out of the room, leaving Alex in a considerably better mood. She hadn’t even noticed to object when he called her “Your Highness.”
TBC
Sunday, June 1, 2008
CI: Take Me Anywhere Chapter Three
Richard Eames was not okay with the idea of his daughter armed. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her. He did. But it was so much easier for him to lay the responsibility for his daughter’s safety on someone else’s doorstep, namely Goren’s. Maybe it was the fact that the two of them were already conspiring against him: He had to hear about a purchase of a gun for his little girl from one of his spies, a/k/a the other guards who overheard them. This was not exactly what he had planned when he hired outside help to look after his daughter – instead of being kept in the loop, details were being kept secret instead.
So, on a rainy Saturday afternoon, a quiet day in the castle, Alex and Goren crept down an old winding stone staircase that was supposed to lead to an old basement that had been converted into an underground shooting range that not many people used anymore, let alone knew about. As a country with a history of peace – where firearms and gun laws have never been a problem, where the royals were for the most part cared for and lauded after, not threatened – so far as the secret service in the castle never felt an overwhelming need to use the place much.
They began this excursion right after brunch.
And they were still descending.
Alex brushed her hair out of her face, “How far down is it? I’m getting vertigo.”
“I think I heard my ears pop about three floors ago,” Goren conceded, like Alex keeping his hands out to his sides to brush the narrow stone walls to help him navigate the spirals in the low lighting. “According to the map,” he waved the folded paper and flashlight, “it shouldn’t be much farther.”
Of course. No wonder Alex felt like she’d been dragged around the castle by him since she’d met him: He’d memorized the floor plans. He led her around the palace practically by her ear. It irritated her that he all of a sudden knew the place so well. It was HER palace! Meanwhile she couldn’t even find the bathroom.
“Ha!” she heard him call out in success as he rounded the last corner before her. She forced her gaze down to maneuver the last few uneven cobblestone steps. She had gotten out of the heels hours ago but she still felt like she was walking on stilts. He glanced back at her and absentmindedly offered his hand, which, under the circumstances, she gratefully took to help her hop off the uneven last step, and looked up.
“Huh,” she marveled with him. “Who knew?” Before them was a thick, soundproof Plexiglas door through which you could see the range: a half a dozen dividers designated the spots each with a pulley system that allowed you to hang your target and move it downrange toward the new walling that had been put in to absorbed the bullets. It wasn’t exactly state-of-the-art, but it would work. The view took some getting used to: the mix of the centuries old stone and the new-age technology.
Alex followed him through the door. The air was stale because of the tight seal the soundproofing had created, whereas the rooms in other parts of the building were high and breezy. Goren put the case he had been carrying down on the counter. The locks clicked open and in the case sat Alex’s new handgun – a .99 mm Glock. Goren picked up the piece and began fiddling with it. He’d been quiet ever since their day in the conference room, when she’d first learned about the threats on her life. And besides the crack on the stairs earlier, Alex was finding he wasn’t a real talkative guy. Meanwhile, Alex had to spill her life story and movements on a regular basis.
“So where are you from?” she ventured, as she stood helplessly to the side.
The personal question visibly threw him, his hands on the gun stilled. “Um . . . a lot of places,” he resumed concentration on his task, removing pieces, examining them, and putting them back together.
Alex didn’t appreciate the brush-off, “A lot of places?” she crossed her arms, “What the hell does that mean?”
He shrugged, “Means I’ve lived in a lot of places. Grew up in many places, many countries.” Alex studied him, obviously uncomfortable under scrutiny. “Here, I . . . I’ll show you how to load it.”
Fifteen minutes later, Alex took a strong stance and lifted the gun downrange, finger off the trigger. Goren stood behind her and reached around her with his right hand. “See this . . . this divot in the front on the gun, and the white dot, back here,” he explained patiently, fingering the items with his thumb and index finger. “You line the dot in between the two divots and your target on top.”
He adjusted his body closer to hers, his arm brushing hers to point out some aspect of the weapon. At first, his movements were hesitant – a combination of her standoffishness and his nervousness. But, as they both focused on their task and their roles as teacher and student, he became more confident. His hands danced across her body, once to adjust her shoulders, again to tighten her grip in one place, loosen it in others. It kept her slightly on edge, not knowing where she’d feel him next.
His fingertips slid down her arms, starting at her shoulders and ending at her fingertips, where he gripped harder.
Once to her wrists to fine-tune them.
Her hips to straighten them.
Her thigh to move her leg into a stronger stance.
She was hyperaware of his close proximity and when it was actually time to shoot, she had to take a few deep breaths to better concentrate on the figure eight her hands naturally made. Alex inhaled, exhaled, watching the movement of her gun, and squeezed the trigger with her fingertip. The kickback pushed her more firmly against his chest. The effort forced him to take a step back and steadied her by gripping both her elbows.
They were suspended for a moment . . . just like that. Alex felt his hands grip her tighter and, for just a moment, she let herself sink back into him ever so slightly. Then, just as suddenly, the air broke. Goren cleared his throat and eased her back steadily onto her feet. Alex let out an uneven breath and brushed herself off.
He reached around her to pull the target back to them to examine. There, in the upper left area of the paper was a perfect round hole. It wasn’t the bull’s-eye, but it was the quadrant she had been aiming for.
“You’re a natural,” he praised, as happy with her as his ability to teach, which he wasn’t sure in – people tended to be turned off by his seemingly unrelated tangents. But anytime he lost her, she’d stop him assertively and tell him to slow down and clarify.
At first his efforts were clumsy – he wasn’t used to being part of a team. He usually worked alone – his hirers preferred he deal with whatever the circumstances were by himself, give them an occasional update, but let them know when it was all done. But this case was different . . . Alex was different.
They stood so close Alex could smell the mix of her spray with his cologne, heightened by the enclosed windowless space and the heat of their bodies. And Alex noted the scent wasn’t completely unappealing.
“Germany,” he murmured, he had his head down as he was loading another clip.
Alex shook her head, still lost in her own thoughts, “Huh?”
“Germany. I was, ah, I was born in Germany. I was an ARMY brat and I was born in Germany. But I grew up mostly in New York.”
Alex couldn’t help the softening of her features and the small smile on her lips.
“I’ve . . . never told anyone that.”
TBC
So, on a rainy Saturday afternoon, a quiet day in the castle, Alex and Goren crept down an old winding stone staircase that was supposed to lead to an old basement that had been converted into an underground shooting range that not many people used anymore, let alone knew about. As a country with a history of peace – where firearms and gun laws have never been a problem, where the royals were for the most part cared for and lauded after, not threatened – so far as the secret service in the castle never felt an overwhelming need to use the place much.
They began this excursion right after brunch.
And they were still descending.
Alex brushed her hair out of her face, “How far down is it? I’m getting vertigo.”
“I think I heard my ears pop about three floors ago,” Goren conceded, like Alex keeping his hands out to his sides to brush the narrow stone walls to help him navigate the spirals in the low lighting. “According to the map,” he waved the folded paper and flashlight, “it shouldn’t be much farther.”
Of course. No wonder Alex felt like she’d been dragged around the castle by him since she’d met him: He’d memorized the floor plans. He led her around the palace practically by her ear. It irritated her that he all of a sudden knew the place so well. It was HER palace! Meanwhile she couldn’t even find the bathroom.
“Ha!” she heard him call out in success as he rounded the last corner before her. She forced her gaze down to maneuver the last few uneven cobblestone steps. She had gotten out of the heels hours ago but she still felt like she was walking on stilts. He glanced back at her and absentmindedly offered his hand, which, under the circumstances, she gratefully took to help her hop off the uneven last step, and looked up.
“Huh,” she marveled with him. “Who knew?” Before them was a thick, soundproof Plexiglas door through which you could see the range: a half a dozen dividers designated the spots each with a pulley system that allowed you to hang your target and move it downrange toward the new walling that had been put in to absorbed the bullets. It wasn’t exactly state-of-the-art, but it would work. The view took some getting used to: the mix of the centuries old stone and the new-age technology.
Alex followed him through the door. The air was stale because of the tight seal the soundproofing had created, whereas the rooms in other parts of the building were high and breezy. Goren put the case he had been carrying down on the counter. The locks clicked open and in the case sat Alex’s new handgun – a .99 mm Glock. Goren picked up the piece and began fiddling with it. He’d been quiet ever since their day in the conference room, when she’d first learned about the threats on her life. And besides the crack on the stairs earlier, Alex was finding he wasn’t a real talkative guy. Meanwhile, Alex had to spill her life story and movements on a regular basis.
“So where are you from?” she ventured, as she stood helplessly to the side.
The personal question visibly threw him, his hands on the gun stilled. “Um . . . a lot of places,” he resumed concentration on his task, removing pieces, examining them, and putting them back together.
Alex didn’t appreciate the brush-off, “A lot of places?” she crossed her arms, “What the hell does that mean?”
He shrugged, “Means I’ve lived in a lot of places. Grew up in many places, many countries.” Alex studied him, obviously uncomfortable under scrutiny. “Here, I . . . I’ll show you how to load it.”
Fifteen minutes later, Alex took a strong stance and lifted the gun downrange, finger off the trigger. Goren stood behind her and reached around her with his right hand. “See this . . . this divot in the front on the gun, and the white dot, back here,” he explained patiently, fingering the items with his thumb and index finger. “You line the dot in between the two divots and your target on top.”
He adjusted his body closer to hers, his arm brushing hers to point out some aspect of the weapon. At first, his movements were hesitant – a combination of her standoffishness and his nervousness. But, as they both focused on their task and their roles as teacher and student, he became more confident. His hands danced across her body, once to adjust her shoulders, again to tighten her grip in one place, loosen it in others. It kept her slightly on edge, not knowing where she’d feel him next.
His fingertips slid down her arms, starting at her shoulders and ending at her fingertips, where he gripped harder.
Once to her wrists to fine-tune them.
Her hips to straighten them.
Her thigh to move her leg into a stronger stance.
She was hyperaware of his close proximity and when it was actually time to shoot, she had to take a few deep breaths to better concentrate on the figure eight her hands naturally made. Alex inhaled, exhaled, watching the movement of her gun, and squeezed the trigger with her fingertip. The kickback pushed her more firmly against his chest. The effort forced him to take a step back and steadied her by gripping both her elbows.
They were suspended for a moment . . . just like that. Alex felt his hands grip her tighter and, for just a moment, she let herself sink back into him ever so slightly. Then, just as suddenly, the air broke. Goren cleared his throat and eased her back steadily onto her feet. Alex let out an uneven breath and brushed herself off.
He reached around her to pull the target back to them to examine. There, in the upper left area of the paper was a perfect round hole. It wasn’t the bull’s-eye, but it was the quadrant she had been aiming for.
“You’re a natural,” he praised, as happy with her as his ability to teach, which he wasn’t sure in – people tended to be turned off by his seemingly unrelated tangents. But anytime he lost her, she’d stop him assertively and tell him to slow down and clarify.
At first his efforts were clumsy – he wasn’t used to being part of a team. He usually worked alone – his hirers preferred he deal with whatever the circumstances were by himself, give them an occasional update, but let them know when it was all done. But this case was different . . . Alex was different.
They stood so close Alex could smell the mix of her spray with his cologne, heightened by the enclosed windowless space and the heat of their bodies. And Alex noted the scent wasn’t completely unappealing.
“Germany,” he murmured, he had his head down as he was loading another clip.
Alex shook her head, still lost in her own thoughts, “Huh?”
“Germany. I was, ah, I was born in Germany. I was an ARMY brat and I was born in Germany. But I grew up mostly in New York.”
Alex couldn’t help the softening of her features and the small smile on her lips.
“I’ve . . . never told anyone that.”
TBC
CI: Take Me Anywhere Chapter Two
For not the first time in the past few months, Robert Goren had to stop and take a minute to remind himself just what country he currently resided in. While traveling all over the globe for varying amounts of time was something he enjoyed, acting as a bodyguard wasn’t his first choice of occupation coming out of the ARMY and working as a cop in the New York City Narcotics division. He’d just kind of fell into it. First as a favor for a friend of a friend of the captain’s, then word got around that he was pretty good and thorough and before he could return to his home base of New York, he was offered another job in yet another part of the country.
The avalanche of assignments meant he hadn’t been to the apartment he continued to pay rent on in over two years. He had wanted to end up in Major Case, but had gotten sidetracked. His captain had assured him he’d put in a good word that would almost guarantee him a spot when he was ready for it. And to be honest, he was ready to go home. Or stay in one place, at least. His buddy, Lewis, was living in his apartment rent-free in return for taking care of the place and the bills. Lewis was a good guy, but Bobby held his temples when he thought of the state he may find it in should he ever return.
But Bobby liked his current job. It was always changing, which kept his mind occupied, and took him to all sorts of locations. He could exercise his knowledge of foreign languages and got to travel, which he always enjoyed – trying new foods, blending in with new people. He had just come off a stint in France, now he was back in the English-speaking part of Europe, where they had the slightest tinge of upper-crust English accents to their voices. It was a small country, which at first surprised him. He was mostly brought on specifically for special cases, high profile or high risk only, so his job was never to just stand around, there was always an investigation to run. But he’d be lying if he said all of it wasn’t catching up to him.
Bobby sighed, pushing any remaining negative thoughts to the side, and flipped open the file he’d already memorized on the plane. Alexandra Elizabeth Eames, who preferred to be addressed as “Alex,” was a newly recognized royal plucked from among the masses to be made the country’s figurehead. But the assent was expected to be a complicated one as the family was already plagued with tragedy and the general public, along with other royals, were getting restless. Bobby’s role in all this was to be combination bodyguard, head of security, and investigator as there had already been death threats on Ms. Eames’ life.
Bobby looked up across the desk at Mr. Eames, Alex’s father and the man who had sought him out. Which was something Bobby had worried about at first – parents were notorious for their overreacting and had a habit of getting in the way of the truth. In a folder in Bobby’s hand were copies of the numerous letters and e-mails mentioning Ms. Eames chances of not living long enough to wear the crown. Bobby could tell right away some, ironically the more forwardly hostile, were amateur – cranky citizens looking to make a fuss or young kids looking to get on the local news and cause uproar. But some, he zeroed in on as quite legitimate.
Richard Eames nodded to the pile on the desk Goren shifted through, “Alex doesn’t know . . . all of this, but this wouldn’t be the first time a royal’s life has been threatened.” He stressed the phrase “all of,” which Bobby took to mean “anything about.” That, along with the brush off at the end, raised all sorts of red flags.
“Has anyone looked at the rival family? The . . .?”
“Wallace’s,” Richard supplied. He smiled, “Goren, the Wallace’s are not known for their good moral standing, but trust me, they wouldn’t kill anyone.”
Bobby didn’t feel particularly convinced and, judging by the wavering in his voice, he wasn’t sure Richard was either. Understandably, the idea may be so unsavory he refused to acknowledge it -- he couldn’t be objective as it was his daughter being threatened. That’s where Goren came in.
“Well, sir, don’t you, don’t you think she ought to know?”
Richard leaned forward in his chair, “Alex is going to having a rough time of it, I’m afraid. I did not raise her for this possibility. In fact, I raised her for the opposite. If I can take one thing off her mind, I was hoping it would be this,” his eyes visibly saddened.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather discuss this with her,” Goren plodded gently, albeit firmly, ahead.
Richard nodded in defeated understanding.
“If she’d rather be left out of it, then I will,” Bobby put both hands up in surrender, “But I’d like to hear it from her.”
Richard jumped a bit in his seat, “Speaking of,” he said. “Ah, Alex!” he called out as he saw her swoosh past the open door and Goren twisted in his chair.
Alex audibly skidded to a halt. Backpedaling she stood in the doorway, craning her neck to check out the entire room, then looked at her father and poked her head back outside the hallway, obviously surprised to see them all there. She was noshing on licorice, and had a peace hanging loosely from her lips as she surveyed the room confusedly. She could’ve sworn her dad’s office was around the next bend, but nope, there he was, standing up at his desk across from some big guy who was looking at her amusedly -- which pissed her off.
OK, so she was already in a bad mood. She had just spent five hours in an enclosed space with people called themselves “fashion consultants” -- two word that Alex detested separately. Together, they were pure hell.
“Alex, is the candy completely necessary?” Richard Eames glanced nervously at their guest.
Alex rolled her eyes – trying to turn her into a snob already, was he? “You spend five hours in a corset circa 1887 and see if you don’t get a little peckish,” she gestured at him with the Twizzler in her left hand.
Goren dropped his head to hide the smirk and chuckle that threatened to escape. “No, its fine,” he insisted, lifting a hand.
Alex crinkled her brows, Like I need this guy’s permission to eat. Who is this guy?
“Who is this guy?” she voiced the thought in her head. Okay, that had come out a little pissier that she had planned, but the guy looked like he could deal, yet she guiltily watched him sober nonetheless.
“Meet Detective Robert Goren,” her father gestured to the big guy who stood belatedly (that much she remembered from that morning’s Etiquette 101) and a little clumsily.
“Alex,” the Detective offered his hand, and his chair, his eyes aimed at the floor for most of the greeting.
Alex took his hand, her eyebrows still knitted together, “Call me Al . . .,” she began out of habit of insisting on being called Alex then stopped, realizing he already had. Huh.
But her mind was already going in another direction altogether, “Wait a minute – detective?”
“I, I’m not here to get in your way,” Goren began.
“Well that’s fine, but get in my way how?” she insisted, looking at Richard warily.
Her father stood, “It’s because of the nature of the thing.”
“The nature of what thing, how?” Now her father was being cagey, which was never a good sign. Neither was the ominous folder in the detective’s grip.
Bobby stood also, but had the good sense to stay out of it for the time being. This is what he had been afraid of – Alex had been kept out of the loop and now she was being thrust into yet another foreign situation. Now she was openly hostile to her father . . . and to him.
“If I could, ah, interrupt,” Goren forced himself into the middle of the standoff – a role he was used to.
“What?” she whipped around on him.
Bobby tilted his head and gave her dubious look. He didn’t mind being the interim scapegoat for the anger that was inevitably to come out of such an adjustment, but this would get them nowhere and Alex seemed to come to the same conclusion.
“Sorry,” she quickly amended.
Goren shook his head, “Fine. I see we have . . . a lot to cover, do you mind if we take this,” he gestured with the folder and Alex’s eyes followed it, “elsewhere?” He’d purposefully not asked her father for permission; instead spoke directly to her, moving to let her through the doorway first.
“Fine,” she agreed tersely. She knew she was acting the part of the petulant child, but if she was going to be treated her like one, what kind of reaction did they expect? She strode down the hallway, trying her best to ignore the gawker-lined hallways that seemed to be a fixture in her life now and allowed herself be led toward one of the smaller conference rooms.
She chose to concentrate on the sound their shoes made echoing off the walls. Alex glanced out of the corner of her eye, studying the man as he shortened his strides to fall in step with her. “What’s in the folder?” She nodded to the manila in his grip.
Now it was his turn to look confused as he followed her gaze, seemingly having forgotten he carried it with him. “Oh, um,” Goren stalled, not really wanting to start this conversation in the hallway, “Ah . . . you,” he finally settled on the truth.
Alex visibly jerked. His answer may not have been a great one, but it effectively shut her up for the rest of the trip.
They entered the conference room she vaguely remembered having a meeting in that morning. Her orphaned New York Times on the table, folded open to the crossword, confirmed it. She had brought it with her, thinking she’d have time to kill. She had been wrong. Alex watched as the detective picked it up like he was familiar with it.
“Boomtown.”
“What?” She was getting sick of playing catch-up with this guy.
Goren looked up, like he hadn’t realized he’d said it aloud. He licked his lips and danced a little agitatedly, “Thirty-five Across, Fast-growing community, eight letters. The, the answer’s Boomtown,” he gestured with his hands.
Alex’s eyebrows finally unknitted from the previous room, but only because they now shot up in the air. This was surreal. And jeez, he stuttered a lot. If this all turns out okay, he’ll prove to be the most competent incompetent she’d ever met.
“Oh. You do the crossword?” He hadn’t answered in a conceited way and she couldn’t fault him for knowing the answers just by glancing at it. Meanwhile Alex had to stare at it like a monkey doing a math problem.
He nodded, “When I have the time, yeah. I’m surprised to find The New York Times here. I couldn’t find it at the airport.”
Alex circled around the table, “This country is suspicious of anything that wasn’t discovered, invented, or grown here. I have to get it smuggled in. Though I’m sure that’s in your file,” she nodded to the little slip of manila in his hand that apparently held her life story. Why the hell’s it so thin? “Along with me,” she added when he wasn’t instantly forthcoming with information.
“I don’t know how much your father or anyone’s told you . . . about the threats against your life. I’m led to believe not a lot.”
Alex’s face visibly paled, “You’d be right.” Her hand felt to her right and gripped the back of a chair, but fought the urge to lower herself into it.
“There’s been threats made on you life, Alex – real threats. Now, some turmoil is to be expected in this type of situation.”
So she was a ‘type’ she thought.
As he talked, he reached into the folder, deliberately taking out one letter at a time, lining them in a row on the table. “You’re being brought in from the outside. Now . . . now, some of these are pretty flimsy – designed to just ruffle a few feathers. But some of these could be very serious.”
Alex watched as the row became longer and longer. She wanted to yell out, “Stop” – to grab his arm and throw the pages away, but she didn’t.
“That’s what I’ve been brought here for – to protect you and weed out the likely suspects, and hopefully bring them out into the open before any real attempt is made on your life and preferably before your coronation.”
Stammered, Alex mentally corrected herself. He stammered, not stuttered. She continued her delicate, shaky trek around the table, blindly picking up letters and email printouts, fighting the bile that rose in her throat over the horrible words and pictures that littered them. Alex’s focus was blurred and she couldn’t read what was on the page in front of her. She steeled herself under his studious gaze – she could feel his eyes burning onto her face, watching for any and every reaction.
“Well, what do you think?” Alex didn’t normally seek out others’ opinion on her life, but he seemed to be some kind of an expert, and she needed to buy some time to allow some things to sink in.
Bobby jerked a little at her question, probably surprised she wasn’t getting hysterical. “I don’t want to alienate you out of this. We should be a team.” Bobby ducked his head, trying to catch her eyes as she was staring into space with an expression that worried him, partly because he couldn’t read it. “That is if . . . if you want to be. What do you think?”
“Well,” she breathed, “I knew I wasn’t going to be popular in some circles, but this is ridiculous.”
He looked shocked, suspended in midair. It was a beat before somebody cut the strings that held his limbs all at once, “Oh, humor, I get it.” But neither of them relaxed. And he was still waiting for her answer.
“Do you always carry that?” she nodded just to the right of him. He followed her gaze to the gun at his hip. She hadn’t been staring unfocusedly at all, quite focused in fact.
“Ah, yeah,” he answered confusedly. She nodded at his answer. “And you?” he ventured again. “Um . . . what do you think?”
She raised her chin, met his eyes dead on, and spoke with the authority that finally hinted to him why these people wanted her for their queen, “I think you’re going to teach me how to shoot.”
TBC
The avalanche of assignments meant he hadn’t been to the apartment he continued to pay rent on in over two years. He had wanted to end up in Major Case, but had gotten sidetracked. His captain had assured him he’d put in a good word that would almost guarantee him a spot when he was ready for it. And to be honest, he was ready to go home. Or stay in one place, at least. His buddy, Lewis, was living in his apartment rent-free in return for taking care of the place and the bills. Lewis was a good guy, but Bobby held his temples when he thought of the state he may find it in should he ever return.
But Bobby liked his current job. It was always changing, which kept his mind occupied, and took him to all sorts of locations. He could exercise his knowledge of foreign languages and got to travel, which he always enjoyed – trying new foods, blending in with new people. He had just come off a stint in France, now he was back in the English-speaking part of Europe, where they had the slightest tinge of upper-crust English accents to their voices. It was a small country, which at first surprised him. He was mostly brought on specifically for special cases, high profile or high risk only, so his job was never to just stand around, there was always an investigation to run. But he’d be lying if he said all of it wasn’t catching up to him.
Bobby sighed, pushing any remaining negative thoughts to the side, and flipped open the file he’d already memorized on the plane. Alexandra Elizabeth Eames, who preferred to be addressed as “Alex,” was a newly recognized royal plucked from among the masses to be made the country’s figurehead. But the assent was expected to be a complicated one as the family was already plagued with tragedy and the general public, along with other royals, were getting restless. Bobby’s role in all this was to be combination bodyguard, head of security, and investigator as there had already been death threats on Ms. Eames’ life.
Bobby looked up across the desk at Mr. Eames, Alex’s father and the man who had sought him out. Which was something Bobby had worried about at first – parents were notorious for their overreacting and had a habit of getting in the way of the truth. In a folder in Bobby’s hand were copies of the numerous letters and e-mails mentioning Ms. Eames chances of not living long enough to wear the crown. Bobby could tell right away some, ironically the more forwardly hostile, were amateur – cranky citizens looking to make a fuss or young kids looking to get on the local news and cause uproar. But some, he zeroed in on as quite legitimate.
Richard Eames nodded to the pile on the desk Goren shifted through, “Alex doesn’t know . . . all of this, but this wouldn’t be the first time a royal’s life has been threatened.” He stressed the phrase “all of,” which Bobby took to mean “anything about.” That, along with the brush off at the end, raised all sorts of red flags.
“Has anyone looked at the rival family? The . . .?”
“Wallace’s,” Richard supplied. He smiled, “Goren, the Wallace’s are not known for their good moral standing, but trust me, they wouldn’t kill anyone.”
Bobby didn’t feel particularly convinced and, judging by the wavering in his voice, he wasn’t sure Richard was either. Understandably, the idea may be so unsavory he refused to acknowledge it -- he couldn’t be objective as it was his daughter being threatened. That’s where Goren came in.
“Well, sir, don’t you, don’t you think she ought to know?”
Richard leaned forward in his chair, “Alex is going to having a rough time of it, I’m afraid. I did not raise her for this possibility. In fact, I raised her for the opposite. If I can take one thing off her mind, I was hoping it would be this,” his eyes visibly saddened.
“If you don’t mind, I’d rather discuss this with her,” Goren plodded gently, albeit firmly, ahead.
Richard nodded in defeated understanding.
“If she’d rather be left out of it, then I will,” Bobby put both hands up in surrender, “But I’d like to hear it from her.”
Richard jumped a bit in his seat, “Speaking of,” he said. “Ah, Alex!” he called out as he saw her swoosh past the open door and Goren twisted in his chair.
Alex audibly skidded to a halt. Backpedaling she stood in the doorway, craning her neck to check out the entire room, then looked at her father and poked her head back outside the hallway, obviously surprised to see them all there. She was noshing on licorice, and had a peace hanging loosely from her lips as she surveyed the room confusedly. She could’ve sworn her dad’s office was around the next bend, but nope, there he was, standing up at his desk across from some big guy who was looking at her amusedly -- which pissed her off.
OK, so she was already in a bad mood. She had just spent five hours in an enclosed space with people called themselves “fashion consultants” -- two word that Alex detested separately. Together, they were pure hell.
“Alex, is the candy completely necessary?” Richard Eames glanced nervously at their guest.
Alex rolled her eyes – trying to turn her into a snob already, was he? “You spend five hours in a corset circa 1887 and see if you don’t get a little peckish,” she gestured at him with the Twizzler in her left hand.
Goren dropped his head to hide the smirk and chuckle that threatened to escape. “No, its fine,” he insisted, lifting a hand.
Alex crinkled her brows, Like I need this guy’s permission to eat. Who is this guy?
“Who is this guy?” she voiced the thought in her head. Okay, that had come out a little pissier that she had planned, but the guy looked like he could deal, yet she guiltily watched him sober nonetheless.
“Meet Detective Robert Goren,” her father gestured to the big guy who stood belatedly (that much she remembered from that morning’s Etiquette 101) and a little clumsily.
“Alex,” the Detective offered his hand, and his chair, his eyes aimed at the floor for most of the greeting.
Alex took his hand, her eyebrows still knitted together, “Call me Al . . .,” she began out of habit of insisting on being called Alex then stopped, realizing he already had. Huh.
But her mind was already going in another direction altogether, “Wait a minute – detective?”
“I, I’m not here to get in your way,” Goren began.
“Well that’s fine, but get in my way how?” she insisted, looking at Richard warily.
Her father stood, “It’s because of the nature of the thing.”
“The nature of what thing, how?” Now her father was being cagey, which was never a good sign. Neither was the ominous folder in the detective’s grip.
Bobby stood also, but had the good sense to stay out of it for the time being. This is what he had been afraid of – Alex had been kept out of the loop and now she was being thrust into yet another foreign situation. Now she was openly hostile to her father . . . and to him.
“If I could, ah, interrupt,” Goren forced himself into the middle of the standoff – a role he was used to.
“What?” she whipped around on him.
Bobby tilted his head and gave her dubious look. He didn’t mind being the interim scapegoat for the anger that was inevitably to come out of such an adjustment, but this would get them nowhere and Alex seemed to come to the same conclusion.
“Sorry,” she quickly amended.
Goren shook his head, “Fine. I see we have . . . a lot to cover, do you mind if we take this,” he gestured with the folder and Alex’s eyes followed it, “elsewhere?” He’d purposefully not asked her father for permission; instead spoke directly to her, moving to let her through the doorway first.
“Fine,” she agreed tersely. She knew she was acting the part of the petulant child, but if she was going to be treated her like one, what kind of reaction did they expect? She strode down the hallway, trying her best to ignore the gawker-lined hallways that seemed to be a fixture in her life now and allowed herself be led toward one of the smaller conference rooms.
She chose to concentrate on the sound their shoes made echoing off the walls. Alex glanced out of the corner of her eye, studying the man as he shortened his strides to fall in step with her. “What’s in the folder?” She nodded to the manila in his grip.
Now it was his turn to look confused as he followed her gaze, seemingly having forgotten he carried it with him. “Oh, um,” Goren stalled, not really wanting to start this conversation in the hallway, “Ah . . . you,” he finally settled on the truth.
Alex visibly jerked. His answer may not have been a great one, but it effectively shut her up for the rest of the trip.
They entered the conference room she vaguely remembered having a meeting in that morning. Her orphaned New York Times on the table, folded open to the crossword, confirmed it. She had brought it with her, thinking she’d have time to kill. She had been wrong. Alex watched as the detective picked it up like he was familiar with it.
“Boomtown.”
“What?” She was getting sick of playing catch-up with this guy.
Goren looked up, like he hadn’t realized he’d said it aloud. He licked his lips and danced a little agitatedly, “Thirty-five Across, Fast-growing community, eight letters. The, the answer’s Boomtown,” he gestured with his hands.
Alex’s eyebrows finally unknitted from the previous room, but only because they now shot up in the air. This was surreal. And jeez, he stuttered a lot. If this all turns out okay, he’ll prove to be the most competent incompetent she’d ever met.
“Oh. You do the crossword?” He hadn’t answered in a conceited way and she couldn’t fault him for knowing the answers just by glancing at it. Meanwhile Alex had to stare at it like a monkey doing a math problem.
He nodded, “When I have the time, yeah. I’m surprised to find The New York Times here. I couldn’t find it at the airport.”
Alex circled around the table, “This country is suspicious of anything that wasn’t discovered, invented, or grown here. I have to get it smuggled in. Though I’m sure that’s in your file,” she nodded to the little slip of manila in his hand that apparently held her life story. Why the hell’s it so thin? “Along with me,” she added when he wasn’t instantly forthcoming with information.
“I don’t know how much your father or anyone’s told you . . . about the threats against your life. I’m led to believe not a lot.”
Alex’s face visibly paled, “You’d be right.” Her hand felt to her right and gripped the back of a chair, but fought the urge to lower herself into it.
“There’s been threats made on you life, Alex – real threats. Now, some turmoil is to be expected in this type of situation.”
So she was a ‘type’ she thought.
As he talked, he reached into the folder, deliberately taking out one letter at a time, lining them in a row on the table. “You’re being brought in from the outside. Now . . . now, some of these are pretty flimsy – designed to just ruffle a few feathers. But some of these could be very serious.”
Alex watched as the row became longer and longer. She wanted to yell out, “Stop” – to grab his arm and throw the pages away, but she didn’t.
“That’s what I’ve been brought here for – to protect you and weed out the likely suspects, and hopefully bring them out into the open before any real attempt is made on your life and preferably before your coronation.”
Stammered, Alex mentally corrected herself. He stammered, not stuttered. She continued her delicate, shaky trek around the table, blindly picking up letters and email printouts, fighting the bile that rose in her throat over the horrible words and pictures that littered them. Alex’s focus was blurred and she couldn’t read what was on the page in front of her. She steeled herself under his studious gaze – she could feel his eyes burning onto her face, watching for any and every reaction.
“Well, what do you think?” Alex didn’t normally seek out others’ opinion on her life, but he seemed to be some kind of an expert, and she needed to buy some time to allow some things to sink in.
Bobby jerked a little at her question, probably surprised she wasn’t getting hysterical. “I don’t want to alienate you out of this. We should be a team.” Bobby ducked his head, trying to catch her eyes as she was staring into space with an expression that worried him, partly because he couldn’t read it. “That is if . . . if you want to be. What do you think?”
“Well,” she breathed, “I knew I wasn’t going to be popular in some circles, but this is ridiculous.”
He looked shocked, suspended in midair. It was a beat before somebody cut the strings that held his limbs all at once, “Oh, humor, I get it.” But neither of them relaxed. And he was still waiting for her answer.
“Do you always carry that?” she nodded just to the right of him. He followed her gaze to the gun at his hip. She hadn’t been staring unfocusedly at all, quite focused in fact.
“Ah, yeah,” he answered confusedly. She nodded at his answer. “And you?” he ventured again. “Um . . . what do you think?”
She raised her chin, met his eyes dead on, and spoke with the authority that finally hinted to him why these people wanted her for their queen, “I think you’re going to teach me how to shoot.”
TBC
CI: Take Me Anywhere Chapter One
TITLE: Take Me Anywhere
Summary: Alexandra Eames never wanted to be a princess. She wanted to play and climb and jump and throw with the boys -- and for thirty-two years she had. Now a country which she had never really identified with as her own, have risen up to demand her as their figurehead. BA and VERY NON-CANON
A/N: I don’t know how this one’s going to fly, but it’s something that won’t get out of my head. Their characters are very similar to how we know them, just in a different element. Its Criminal Intent meets Princess Diaries meets Chasing Liberty – so if you’re not into the BA romance, look elsewhere.
Chapter One – Big Girls Don’t Cry
A small, yet noteworthy country somewhere in Europe; Today . . .
“You have got to be kidding me,” the petite woman insisted, her voice breaking though her anger was evident. “You promised me,” she hissed, pointing her finger accusingly. “You promised this would Never. Happen.”
“I know,” her father responded regretfully, not being able to meet his daughter’s eyes despite his tough exterior. “Alexandra,” he pleaded.
“Alex,” she corrected distractedly out of habit, her palm went to her forehead and she began pacing, her steps echoing off the vast walls of the ballroom they stood in. Technically, it was a “conference room” but the former term, by normal standards, could apply.
“Alex,” he placated, “I cannot change what the people demand. And they demand you. You should be flattered,” he made a futile attempted to put a positive spin on the situation.
“Flattered!? This is my life, dad! I was NOT raised for this! I was raised for the opposite of this! Do you know what this means?” she opened her hands in entreaty, using her whole body in an attempt to communicate with him. “Of course you know what this means,” she chastised herself, “but so do I. I’m not naive. The majority of the country may want to see me in a dress and a crown, but a minority, which is an awful lot of people, demand otherwise. I’ll have the rightful heirs, a large and powerful family, out for my head!”
Richard Eames studied his headstrong daughter. Even now, she was a sight. Wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers she did not fit with her surroundings – the grand (Alex would say ‘gaudy’) conference room. Her blue t-shirt clashed harshly against the gold walls and shimmering ceiling fixtures. She’d never know how much it hurt him to do this to her – how much it broke his heart to tell her the news that would pull her into this other world against her will, utterly on her own and at the mercy of strangers.
“You don’t have to do this,” he conceded quietly.
Alex spun to face him and gave him a doubtful look, “If I don’t, the Wallace family falls into line, the country will fall apart, and everyone will blame me,” she thrust a hand at her chest. Alex closed her eyes and attempted a cleansing breath. The smell of majesty hung over the place like a death shroud and she choked on the heavy air.
When Alex woke up this morning, she thought all that was on her schedule for the day was her morning coffee (tons of sugar) while pouring over her imported New York Times. Maybe she’d even attempt the crossword. She never risen to Will Shortz’s challenge when she lived in his city for most of her life, but now that she had returned to her European birthplace to spend time with her dad at his request, the urge to have a crack at the puzzle had overtaken her.
She was only on fourteen across -- “modern business equipment,” seven letters -- and welcomed the interruption of the ringing telephone. On the other end was an over-polite woman informing her she was requested to “have an audience with her father” at noon at the palace. Alex was willing to do a lot of things for her father, stepping onto the high-and-mighty grounds of royalty was not one of them. Why in the world didn’t he just call and tell her what he wanted? When she suggested this idea to the woman on the phone, she was given a polite version of “screw you” and hung up on.
Alex sighed. When she had agreed to come back to spend her summer vacation off from her job as an elementary school teacher with him, her father had given her a cryptic response of “maybe you’ll find a job here.” What Alex at the time thought was a father’s hopefulness to be near his daughter was now known to be a foreshadowing. Which explained why every time Alex suggested him moving to New York (his birthplace); she got a shake of the head.
Since birth she had avoided the ballrooms and the palace grounds in general, if she could help it. She supposed that as a kid she should’ve liked the large estate and all the open grass, all the mazelike hedges, but she hadn’t. She much preferred the tree house in the backyard of the simple home off the palace grounds that she and her father had shared and playing with the neighborhood kids in the adjoining town where she went to public school. She knew people in the palace looked down on her, even as a child when she didn’t know the full circumstances, she could feel their disapproving stares -- that she was tracking her bastard mud into their pristine world – a reminder that their precious Queen had felt the need to go slumming with her own bodyguard and had chosen to bear the child instead of quietly getting rid of it, the option the staff and general public found more palpable.
Alex’s father had had an affair with the Queen, who was supposed to have been in mourning for her late husband, the King. At the time, the staff had looked the other way, deciding the Queen deserved some happiness, having lost her husband and left with a country to run and a young son to raise. That was, until she became pregnant with Alex. A little misdemeanor suddenly became a national felony.
Richard was quickly demoted to bodyguard for the young Prince Michael, the Queen’s legitimate child, and the Queen had spent the duration of the pregnancy in hiding, not making a single public appearance. Upon her daughter’s birth, Alex’s mother had been given the choice of kin or country and she chose the latter. Richard had more or less raised Alex as a single parent. She had a happy childhood regardless. Not one of anonymity, as her father’s affair with her mother was a nationwide scandal. Her mother had tried to reach out a little, but Alex had gone away to the United States where she had duel citizenship, to go to school and live with her father’s family.
But, as the castle was her father’s place of business as bodyguard to the Prince, entering its sacred grounds couldn’t always be prevented. As the guard to Prince Michael since before the young heir could walk, Richard Eames was to naturally rise to the place of bodyguard to King Michael one day – but that would never be. Michael had tragically died of cancer mere weeks ago, which had been followed, even more unfortunately by the death of the Queen (and consequently Alex’s estranged mother) days later by a stroke. Alex had mourned their deaths, but not as half-sister and daughter, and not as dedicated supporter, but the kind of mourning of a distant relation. She hadn’t spoken to either of them much at all in her entire life.
Michael had been so youthful, even during the illness, and only a couple years older than Alex’s thirty-two. No one believed he would ever die before having a son or daughter of his own. His wife, filled with grief and overwhelmed by the pressure, had vanished. The whole country mourned. The line of succession had been abruptly snuffed out. They looked to a leader and they had chosen Alex, the Queen’s only other offspring, by popular consent and, hours ago, officially by Parliament. Alexandra would either agree to give up her status as a normal citizen or the line of succession would fall to the Queen’s mother’s side, the Wallace’s. And a dubious side of the family it was.
“You’re life will have to change,” Richard Eames spoke finally. “I wish it didn’t, but I have no power to change that.”
“And I don’t either?”
Alexandra Elizabeth Eames never wanted to be a princess. She wanted to play and climb and jump and throw with the boys, and for thirty-two years she had. Now a country which she had never really identified as her own, have risen up to demand her as their figurehead -- the same country that had branded her a bastard upon birth, the product of an affair when her mother, the Queen, had an affair with her bodyguard, the man that stood before her now.
Alex knew, in the back of her mind despite how far she forced it, that this might be a possibility some day, that her parentage might come back to haunt her, that she might someday be called upon to aid her mother’s native country. As hard as she tried to leave it behind her, when Alex was in America, she couldn’t help but scan the newspapers for the name of her native country.
“I don’t look like these people. I don’t talk like these people,” she offered piteously.
“You’ll learn,” her father assured her, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“An English accent?” she kidded.
Richard smiled at his daughter’s characteristic humor. He put his arm around his daughter, “Well, maybe not the accent. I’m afraid you and I will never be true residents, will we?” He led them towards the door. Before she exited, his expression turned serious and he moved her shoulders to face him, look him in the eyes. “You’re going to be hearing this a lot from me in the upcoming months, but I want you to know that I mean it now. You will make a great Queen, Alex. I knew you always would. I recognized you as the Princess you were – even if the rest of the country took a little longer.”
Allowing his daughter to be whisked away to make her decision official, Richard entered his office that resided off of a side hallway. He heaved a great sigh as he flopped down into his chair. Well, it was over. He had broken the news to Alex and she had taken it with dignity. He was filled with pride for his daughter and beloved adopted country. But his thoughts quickly sobered. Nothing was really over. It’s really only just begun.
“Richard,” Tom, who had been the bodyguard to the Queen until her death, greeted as he entered. “I just heard the news. Congratulations are in order, I suppose.”
Richard shook his head, “I didn’t do anything. It was Alex’s decision.”
Tom shrugged, “Congratulations all the same. It’s about time Alex was recognized. But this leaves us very little time. There’s going to have to be some arrangements made. A bodyguard for instance. You could be a conflict of interest and I’m only staying on long enough to get things settled. I could suggest a few men and women we’ve been training, but I don’t have to tell you that this is a delicate situation. I don’t think Alexandra has the full grasp of just how much danger she could be in.”
Richard stood, shaking his head, “I’ve already found the guy,” he plopped a folder down onto the desk between them.
Tom picked it up, looking doubtful he flipped through. “Robert O. Goren,” he recited. “Wait, Goren? The guy who jumps off buildings?” his speaking earned him a glare and he quickly corrected himself. “But . . . he is not one of us,” he ventured. “He’s American.”
Eames nodded, “So is Alex, really. She might feel more comfortable with someone she more identifies with.”
Tom continued to peruse the folder. “I don’t think anyone could identify with any part of this guy,” he commented offhandedly. He snapped the folder closed and looked up at Richard incredulously, “He knows five languages.”
Richard ignored him, “We bring someone in from the outside, we know he will not be aligned with anyone but us,” he reasoned.
“Or he could be bought off by the other side,” Tom threw out.
Eames shook his head, smiling excitedly, “Not this guy.”
Tom made a last ditch effort to persuade his colleague, “Isn’t he a little . . . unconventional?”
Richard Eames sat back in his chair, “These are unconventional times, Tom. And Alexandra is an unconventional princess.”
TBC
A/N: Will Shortz is the editor of the NYTimes’ notoriously difficult crossword puzzle.
Summary: Alexandra Eames never wanted to be a princess. She wanted to play and climb and jump and throw with the boys -- and for thirty-two years she had. Now a country which she had never really identified with as her own, have risen up to demand her as their figurehead. BA and VERY NON-CANON
A/N: I don’t know how this one’s going to fly, but it’s something that won’t get out of my head. Their characters are very similar to how we know them, just in a different element. Its Criminal Intent meets Princess Diaries meets Chasing Liberty – so if you’re not into the BA romance, look elsewhere.
Chapter One – Big Girls Don’t Cry
A small, yet noteworthy country somewhere in Europe; Today . . .
“You have got to be kidding me,” the petite woman insisted, her voice breaking though her anger was evident. “You promised me,” she hissed, pointing her finger accusingly. “You promised this would Never. Happen.”
“I know,” her father responded regretfully, not being able to meet his daughter’s eyes despite his tough exterior. “Alexandra,” he pleaded.
“Alex,” she corrected distractedly out of habit, her palm went to her forehead and she began pacing, her steps echoing off the vast walls of the ballroom they stood in. Technically, it was a “conference room” but the former term, by normal standards, could apply.
“Alex,” he placated, “I cannot change what the people demand. And they demand you. You should be flattered,” he made a futile attempted to put a positive spin on the situation.
“Flattered!? This is my life, dad! I was NOT raised for this! I was raised for the opposite of this! Do you know what this means?” she opened her hands in entreaty, using her whole body in an attempt to communicate with him. “Of course you know what this means,” she chastised herself, “but so do I. I’m not naive. The majority of the country may want to see me in a dress and a crown, but a minority, which is an awful lot of people, demand otherwise. I’ll have the rightful heirs, a large and powerful family, out for my head!”
Richard Eames studied his headstrong daughter. Even now, she was a sight. Wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and sneakers she did not fit with her surroundings – the grand (Alex would say ‘gaudy’) conference room. Her blue t-shirt clashed harshly against the gold walls and shimmering ceiling fixtures. She’d never know how much it hurt him to do this to her – how much it broke his heart to tell her the news that would pull her into this other world against her will, utterly on her own and at the mercy of strangers.
“You don’t have to do this,” he conceded quietly.
Alex spun to face him and gave him a doubtful look, “If I don’t, the Wallace family falls into line, the country will fall apart, and everyone will blame me,” she thrust a hand at her chest. Alex closed her eyes and attempted a cleansing breath. The smell of majesty hung over the place like a death shroud and she choked on the heavy air.
When Alex woke up this morning, she thought all that was on her schedule for the day was her morning coffee (tons of sugar) while pouring over her imported New York Times. Maybe she’d even attempt the crossword. She never risen to Will Shortz’s challenge when she lived in his city for most of her life, but now that she had returned to her European birthplace to spend time with her dad at his request, the urge to have a crack at the puzzle had overtaken her.
She was only on fourteen across -- “modern business equipment,” seven letters -- and welcomed the interruption of the ringing telephone. On the other end was an over-polite woman informing her she was requested to “have an audience with her father” at noon at the palace. Alex was willing to do a lot of things for her father, stepping onto the high-and-mighty grounds of royalty was not one of them. Why in the world didn’t he just call and tell her what he wanted? When she suggested this idea to the woman on the phone, she was given a polite version of “screw you” and hung up on.
Alex sighed. When she had agreed to come back to spend her summer vacation off from her job as an elementary school teacher with him, her father had given her a cryptic response of “maybe you’ll find a job here.” What Alex at the time thought was a father’s hopefulness to be near his daughter was now known to be a foreshadowing. Which explained why every time Alex suggested him moving to New York (his birthplace); she got a shake of the head.
Since birth she had avoided the ballrooms and the palace grounds in general, if she could help it. She supposed that as a kid she should’ve liked the large estate and all the open grass, all the mazelike hedges, but she hadn’t. She much preferred the tree house in the backyard of the simple home off the palace grounds that she and her father had shared and playing with the neighborhood kids in the adjoining town where she went to public school. She knew people in the palace looked down on her, even as a child when she didn’t know the full circumstances, she could feel their disapproving stares -- that she was tracking her bastard mud into their pristine world – a reminder that their precious Queen had felt the need to go slumming with her own bodyguard and had chosen to bear the child instead of quietly getting rid of it, the option the staff and general public found more palpable.
Alex’s father had had an affair with the Queen, who was supposed to have been in mourning for her late husband, the King. At the time, the staff had looked the other way, deciding the Queen deserved some happiness, having lost her husband and left with a country to run and a young son to raise. That was, until she became pregnant with Alex. A little misdemeanor suddenly became a national felony.
Richard was quickly demoted to bodyguard for the young Prince Michael, the Queen’s legitimate child, and the Queen had spent the duration of the pregnancy in hiding, not making a single public appearance. Upon her daughter’s birth, Alex’s mother had been given the choice of kin or country and she chose the latter. Richard had more or less raised Alex as a single parent. She had a happy childhood regardless. Not one of anonymity, as her father’s affair with her mother was a nationwide scandal. Her mother had tried to reach out a little, but Alex had gone away to the United States where she had duel citizenship, to go to school and live with her father’s family.
But, as the castle was her father’s place of business as bodyguard to the Prince, entering its sacred grounds couldn’t always be prevented. As the guard to Prince Michael since before the young heir could walk, Richard Eames was to naturally rise to the place of bodyguard to King Michael one day – but that would never be. Michael had tragically died of cancer mere weeks ago, which had been followed, even more unfortunately by the death of the Queen (and consequently Alex’s estranged mother) days later by a stroke. Alex had mourned their deaths, but not as half-sister and daughter, and not as dedicated supporter, but the kind of mourning of a distant relation. She hadn’t spoken to either of them much at all in her entire life.
Michael had been so youthful, even during the illness, and only a couple years older than Alex’s thirty-two. No one believed he would ever die before having a son or daughter of his own. His wife, filled with grief and overwhelmed by the pressure, had vanished. The whole country mourned. The line of succession had been abruptly snuffed out. They looked to a leader and they had chosen Alex, the Queen’s only other offspring, by popular consent and, hours ago, officially by Parliament. Alexandra would either agree to give up her status as a normal citizen or the line of succession would fall to the Queen’s mother’s side, the Wallace’s. And a dubious side of the family it was.
“You’re life will have to change,” Richard Eames spoke finally. “I wish it didn’t, but I have no power to change that.”
“And I don’t either?”
Alexandra Elizabeth Eames never wanted to be a princess. She wanted to play and climb and jump and throw with the boys, and for thirty-two years she had. Now a country which she had never really identified as her own, have risen up to demand her as their figurehead -- the same country that had branded her a bastard upon birth, the product of an affair when her mother, the Queen, had an affair with her bodyguard, the man that stood before her now.
Alex knew, in the back of her mind despite how far she forced it, that this might be a possibility some day, that her parentage might come back to haunt her, that she might someday be called upon to aid her mother’s native country. As hard as she tried to leave it behind her, when Alex was in America, she couldn’t help but scan the newspapers for the name of her native country.
“I don’t look like these people. I don’t talk like these people,” she offered piteously.
“You’ll learn,” her father assured her, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“An English accent?” she kidded.
Richard smiled at his daughter’s characteristic humor. He put his arm around his daughter, “Well, maybe not the accent. I’m afraid you and I will never be true residents, will we?” He led them towards the door. Before she exited, his expression turned serious and he moved her shoulders to face him, look him in the eyes. “You’re going to be hearing this a lot from me in the upcoming months, but I want you to know that I mean it now. You will make a great Queen, Alex. I knew you always would. I recognized you as the Princess you were – even if the rest of the country took a little longer.”
Allowing his daughter to be whisked away to make her decision official, Richard entered his office that resided off of a side hallway. He heaved a great sigh as he flopped down into his chair. Well, it was over. He had broken the news to Alex and she had taken it with dignity. He was filled with pride for his daughter and beloved adopted country. But his thoughts quickly sobered. Nothing was really over. It’s really only just begun.
“Richard,” Tom, who had been the bodyguard to the Queen until her death, greeted as he entered. “I just heard the news. Congratulations are in order, I suppose.”
Richard shook his head, “I didn’t do anything. It was Alex’s decision.”
Tom shrugged, “Congratulations all the same. It’s about time Alex was recognized. But this leaves us very little time. There’s going to have to be some arrangements made. A bodyguard for instance. You could be a conflict of interest and I’m only staying on long enough to get things settled. I could suggest a few men and women we’ve been training, but I don’t have to tell you that this is a delicate situation. I don’t think Alexandra has the full grasp of just how much danger she could be in.”
Richard stood, shaking his head, “I’ve already found the guy,” he plopped a folder down onto the desk between them.
Tom picked it up, looking doubtful he flipped through. “Robert O. Goren,” he recited. “Wait, Goren? The guy who jumps off buildings?” his speaking earned him a glare and he quickly corrected himself. “But . . . he is not one of us,” he ventured. “He’s American.”
Eames nodded, “So is Alex, really. She might feel more comfortable with someone she more identifies with.”
Tom continued to peruse the folder. “I don’t think anyone could identify with any part of this guy,” he commented offhandedly. He snapped the folder closed and looked up at Richard incredulously, “He knows five languages.”
Richard ignored him, “We bring someone in from the outside, we know he will not be aligned with anyone but us,” he reasoned.
“Or he could be bought off by the other side,” Tom threw out.
Eames shook his head, smiling excitedly, “Not this guy.”
Tom made a last ditch effort to persuade his colleague, “Isn’t he a little . . . unconventional?”
Richard Eames sat back in his chair, “These are unconventional times, Tom. And Alexandra is an unconventional princess.”
TBC
A/N: Will Shortz is the editor of the NYTimes’ notoriously difficult crossword puzzle.
Spuffy: It's the Great Slayer, Buffy Summers
Summary: Spike and Buffy are together celebrating Halloween. No angst, just happy Halloween-ing with a little homage It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown. *Re-edited*
“A person should always choose a costume which is in direct contrast to her own personality.”
-It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown
“Come on, Summers, this one’s perfect!” Spike heaved the odd-shaped orb to his chest, stumbling a bit as he readjusted the weight. Realizing just how ridiculous he must look, Spike straightened and tried to compose his dignity.
Buffy’s eyes never lifted from her inspection of her nails and simply turned up her nose, “No, too small,” she insisted starting off in another direction. She hadn’t even looked at it.
Spike heaved dramatically, his leather shoulders shrugging, “When I offered to help you patrol tonight, this is not what I had in mind.” Spike followed the trail Buffy’s heels left in the dirt and weaved his way through Mrs. Wilder’s garden. “It’s Halloween, nothing’s out here.”
“Then why’d you agree to come out with me since you knew there’d be no action?” Buffy challenged, ignored his bellowing and continued on.
“I don’t mind your dishonesty half as much as I mind your opinion of me. You must think I’m stupid,” he marveled.
Spike grumbled something to the extent of being ‘whipped’ and lit a cigarette. He exhaled, “I really hate this.” He sounded like a petulant four year old. “What a way to spend Halloween. Out here making a yearly fool of m’self,” he continued to grumble.
Buffy pivoted on her heels, crossing her arms across her chest, “You better cut it out right now or I’ll pound you!” Buffy took a deep breath, attempting patience. “Spike, I am quite aware of your distaste in Halloween. But, having it be the only no-vampire lurking night of the year, I plan to revel in it.” Her jaw set, “Now are you going to help or not?”
Spike sighed, surveyed their surroundings, “Are you sure it’s legal? I wouldn’t want to be accused of taking part in a rumble,” he faked morals, mocking her reasons for dragging him out on his most hated night of the year.
”Gah!” Buffy growled, pouting at him and trudging to the other side of the garden.
He never knew when to stop, always made one joke too many.
“Buffy,” he sang, approaching her as she sulked away from him. He saddled up next to her. “I’m sorry, luv,” he apologized in that octave that usually got him out of anything. “I’d never laugh at you, Buffy,” he caressed her silky hair, drawing it over her shoulder. “You’re so intelligent and you say the cutest things.”
Her shoulders slumped and the corner of her cupid mouth twitched, the sure signs she was forgiving him. But she fought it. “If you try to hold my hand I’ll slug you!” She exclaimed. Apparently she was too pissed for his sweet-talk to have much effect.
Unable to deny his girl anything, he quickly reconsidered. “Fine, Slayer, I’ll do whatever you want,” he answered, waving the white flag. She rewarded him with a pretty smile, thrusting a heavy pumpkin into his arms.
Every fall Mrs. Wilder created her own pumpkin patch in her backyard garden. It was during late night patrols that Buffy took the opportunity to pick the best pumpkins for her and Dawn to carve up for Halloween. This year Dawn was spending this Halloween with Willow and Tara at some witch retreat, but Buffy was game to celebrate the demon-free night anyway. Trick or treating was to begin in less than an hour and Xander was coming over to hand out candy with Buffy and Spike and partake in a Halloween television special marathon.
“If anyone had told me I’d be waiting in a pumpkin patch on Halloween night with my sworn enemy, I’d ‘ve of said they were crazy,” Spike grumbled, adjusting the awkward weight in his arms. He had picked the one double the expanse of his chest as a joke.
But then her eyes lit up, “Perfect!” she squealed. Buffy chose a pumpkin of her own, slightly smaller than the one she had handed Spike. Ignoring his bellyaching she started back towards Revello Drive. He got half way before he decided to just roll the damn thing – not that it was too heavy for him, just awkward to carry.
_______________________________________________
When he made a big deal about his efforts to stop the rolling pumpkin at her porch steps, she glared at him and he quickly picked it up, stumbled up to the house.
Buffy set her own pumpkin down on the kitchen table. She motioned for Spike to do the same. It hit the table with a thud.
“Take off your coat and roll up your sleeves.” She began spreading newspaper under each pumpkin.
Spike did as she said, but looked less than enthused, “Summers, I carried the damn thing here, do I really have to take part in the festivities?”
“Here,” she handed him a lethal looking knife the length of his forearm.
His complaining instantly ceased and his blue eyes lit up, “Ohhhh, you didn’t tell me we were going to kill it.” A smirk came across his lips as he stabbed the sharp instrument deep into the pumpkin, happy for a spot of violence, even if his victim was a large fruit.
_____________________________________________
*DING DONG*
The doorbell rang and Buffy hurried from the kitchen, which she had just dashed towards moments earlier to refill the ever emptying orange bowl of assorted chocolates and candy not seconds earlier.
Her exasperated sighs were diminished when she reached the thick wooden door and opened it to reveal the doorbell ringers -- a half a dozen little people bursting with color and energy. Spiderman stood next to a pirate, a flapper, and Mary Poppins.
Buffy’s bright smile couldn’t help but light at the sight of some of the cutest kids she’d ever seen. All were jumping with excitement at the sight of the bowl at her hip, tripping over their costumes and bumping into each other for first picks.
“You guys look great!” Buffy exclaimed, lowering her bowl to their grabby hands.
Buffy closed the door on the latest trick or treaters. Smiling, she turned into the living room. Her boyfriend, and only active demon tonight, was sprawled across the couch. Xander was lying on the floor, head in his hands. Both were riveted to the television screen. On second thought, maybe not so active. . . .
“Isn’t anyone going to help me here? What if some evil psycho casts a spell and turned everyone into their costumes? Dozens of Cinderella’s could be beating me with sharp sticks with sequenced stars on the ends and the two of you would still be sitting there.” The irony of her joke was lost as the two men continued to watch the tv. Buffy craned her neck to see what they found so interesting. Linus and his blanket went flittering across the screen, describing the fantastic Great Pumpkin. “Oh, brother,” she grumbled.
“Well if they try anything, we’ll beat them up and steal their candy,” Spike deadpanned, eyes never coming off the screen.
Buffy dropped the bowl of candy into Spike’s lap, “Thanks ol’ pal,” sarcastically.
He shook his head in amazement, “I totally understand the appeal now,” Spike marveled quietly at the show.
“You were missing out, my friend,” Xander called back, eyes trained on It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.
Coming out of his reverie, Spike only now realized what his girlfriend had given him. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked, hips lifting slightly off the couch, trying to off the offending object, unwilling to touch it with his hands.
“It’s the candy bowl, take over. I need to go raid the kitchen for extra bags of candy, I’m running out.” Buffy turned, planning to search for Dawn’s secret stash. “If someone comes to the door, hand it out.” Her words had him leaping off the couch.
“Oi! Buffy, no. I was willing to be a good sport in the pumpkin patch earlier on account of it’s stealing, but this is too much. I. Do. Not. Celebrate. Halloween. I have my reputation to think of, you know.”
“Spike, it’s not even a celebration anymore. It’s an over commercialized excuse for kids to cover themselves in cheap plastic and get on a sugar high, you can handle it.”
He looked at her and blinked. “We’re obviously separated by denominational differences.” His eyes focused on the foreign object in his hands. “Any advice?” he lifted the bowl.
“Advice? Never jump into a pile of leaves with a wet sucker. Good Lord, Spike, this isn’t brain surgery, kids come to the door, you throw some candy into the bags and they go away.” She scoffed and left him to fend for himself in the foyer when the doorbell rang.
She must have been in there awhile because when the door chimed for the umpteenth time, she heard Spike get up from the couch, grumbling about “bloody stupid holidays.”
Minutes passed and Buffy didn’t hear the door shut. Wondering what could be taking Spike so long, she grabbed the half empty bag of Reese’s peanut butter cups and entered the foyer.
He was leaned against the door frame, bowl in one hand, and a raised eyebrow. His mouth was twisted in a half frown and a look of disdain crossed the rest of his features.
“Spike, what are you . . . Oh my god!” Buffy’s eyes bulged as she followed Spike’s sightline down to the ground before the threshold. Buffy gasped, “That is absolutely the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
There stood a little curly haired blonde boy, no more than three years old. What would have been a poodle head of curls was slicked back against his head. The skinny little baby boy was wearing a makeshift vampire costume complete with black t-shirt, black jeans, and miniature black Reebok’s. His mother had completed the look with plastic vampire teeth. The Lil’ Spike was staring up at his larger, more muscular counterpart with equal parts curiosity and innocence.
Spike stared the boy up and down, “I don’t like the look of ‘im.”
Buffy couldn’t resist temptation and leaned down around Spike, putting her face to face with the little boy, “Now repeat after me, ‘I’m the Big Bad’.”
Spike gently kneed her head out of the way. She giggled as she came up.
“ ‘S not funny, Pet.”
Buffy just winked at him and reached into the bowl he was holding, taking out a bag of cookies, “Here you go, sweetheart,” placing the bag in his pumpkin bucket.
The toddler seemed more than ecstatic with his treat, and retreated back to the edge of the porch, reaching out for his mother’s hand to help him down the stairs.
Buffy closed the door on the cute little scene and turned around, only to bump into Spike’s hard chest. He deposited the candy bowl on the table by the door, freeing his hands to wrap around Buffy’s waist. She gamely wound her arms around his neck and allowed herself to be pulled into his kiss.
Pulling back, Buffy grimaced, “Bach! Bach! Vampire lips!” she mocked disgust, pretending to spit.
He slapped her sashaying bottom as he followed her back into the living room.
“Blockhead!” She called back before curling up on the cushy couch.
“Hey Buffy,” Xander called back, flipping through a book that looked like it should belong to Giles, “Did you know that if a girl puts a sprig of rosemary herb and a silver sixpence under her pillow on Halloween night, she will see her future husband in a dream?” He read.
Buffy rolled her eyes, “Right. Next you’re going to tell me there’s a Great Pumpkin.”
“You don’t believe the story?” Spike mused. He lowered his voice, mouth descending to her neck. “I thought all little girls believed everything that was told to them. I thought little girls were innocent and trusting?” He nipped at the exposed vein.
“Welcome to the 21st century,” she replied, tilting her head while her fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck.
A ring of the doorbell interrupted them, Spike growled as Buffy pushed off his lap. Grabbing the bowl of sweets, Spike headed to the doorway behind her, planning to make quick work of the munchkins on the other side.
He opened the door to a little girl and boy. Spike eyed the male, “What in the bloody hell kind of costume is that?”
Xander appeared behind him on his trek to the kitchen, pausing in the stairway, “He’s a World War I flying ace!” He exclaimed.
The little boy looked at Xander appreciatively.
Spike turned to the little girl who stood next to the pilot, “And you are?”
The girl who had been standing on the porch, meekly waiting for her candy, instantly shot to attention. “A fierce warrior!” she hollered into the night sky, showing off her Xena-like costume.
Spike looked impressed. He leaned back, reaching into the pocket of his duster that was hung on the coat-rack. “Here,” he handed the little girl a stake after spinning it through his fingertips deftly.
“Spike!” Buffy yelled, trying to grab it out of his grasp, but the girl was already off with it.
“What? Might save her life one day.” He looked out into the yard in satisfaction as the little girl chased her friend around with her new weapon. Granted, she was holding it backwards.
Spike closed the door and the three returned to the living room. Xander stretched, “What a way to spend Halloween. You just gotta love that Snoopy,” he marveled as the credits on It’s The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown began to roll. He eyed the two on the couch, “Do you want me to show you the dance?”
“NO!”
END
“A person should always choose a costume which is in direct contrast to her own personality.”
-It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown
“Come on, Summers, this one’s perfect!” Spike heaved the odd-shaped orb to his chest, stumbling a bit as he readjusted the weight. Realizing just how ridiculous he must look, Spike straightened and tried to compose his dignity.
Buffy’s eyes never lifted from her inspection of her nails and simply turned up her nose, “No, too small,” she insisted starting off in another direction. She hadn’t even looked at it.
Spike heaved dramatically, his leather shoulders shrugging, “When I offered to help you patrol tonight, this is not what I had in mind.” Spike followed the trail Buffy’s heels left in the dirt and weaved his way through Mrs. Wilder’s garden. “It’s Halloween, nothing’s out here.”
“Then why’d you agree to come out with me since you knew there’d be no action?” Buffy challenged, ignored his bellowing and continued on.
“I don’t mind your dishonesty half as much as I mind your opinion of me. You must think I’m stupid,” he marveled.
Spike grumbled something to the extent of being ‘whipped’ and lit a cigarette. He exhaled, “I really hate this.” He sounded like a petulant four year old. “What a way to spend Halloween. Out here making a yearly fool of m’self,” he continued to grumble.
Buffy pivoted on her heels, crossing her arms across her chest, “You better cut it out right now or I’ll pound you!” Buffy took a deep breath, attempting patience. “Spike, I am quite aware of your distaste in Halloween. But, having it be the only no-vampire lurking night of the year, I plan to revel in it.” Her jaw set, “Now are you going to help or not?”
Spike sighed, surveyed their surroundings, “Are you sure it’s legal? I wouldn’t want to be accused of taking part in a rumble,” he faked morals, mocking her reasons for dragging him out on his most hated night of the year.
”Gah!” Buffy growled, pouting at him and trudging to the other side of the garden.
He never knew when to stop, always made one joke too many.
“Buffy,” he sang, approaching her as she sulked away from him. He saddled up next to her. “I’m sorry, luv,” he apologized in that octave that usually got him out of anything. “I’d never laugh at you, Buffy,” he caressed her silky hair, drawing it over her shoulder. “You’re so intelligent and you say the cutest things.”
Her shoulders slumped and the corner of her cupid mouth twitched, the sure signs she was forgiving him. But she fought it. “If you try to hold my hand I’ll slug you!” She exclaimed. Apparently she was too pissed for his sweet-talk to have much effect.
Unable to deny his girl anything, he quickly reconsidered. “Fine, Slayer, I’ll do whatever you want,” he answered, waving the white flag. She rewarded him with a pretty smile, thrusting a heavy pumpkin into his arms.
Every fall Mrs. Wilder created her own pumpkin patch in her backyard garden. It was during late night patrols that Buffy took the opportunity to pick the best pumpkins for her and Dawn to carve up for Halloween. This year Dawn was spending this Halloween with Willow and Tara at some witch retreat, but Buffy was game to celebrate the demon-free night anyway. Trick or treating was to begin in less than an hour and Xander was coming over to hand out candy with Buffy and Spike and partake in a Halloween television special marathon.
“If anyone had told me I’d be waiting in a pumpkin patch on Halloween night with my sworn enemy, I’d ‘ve of said they were crazy,” Spike grumbled, adjusting the awkward weight in his arms. He had picked the one double the expanse of his chest as a joke.
But then her eyes lit up, “Perfect!” she squealed. Buffy chose a pumpkin of her own, slightly smaller than the one she had handed Spike. Ignoring his bellyaching she started back towards Revello Drive. He got half way before he decided to just roll the damn thing – not that it was too heavy for him, just awkward to carry.
_______________________________________________
When he made a big deal about his efforts to stop the rolling pumpkin at her porch steps, she glared at him and he quickly picked it up, stumbled up to the house.
Buffy set her own pumpkin down on the kitchen table. She motioned for Spike to do the same. It hit the table with a thud.
“Take off your coat and roll up your sleeves.” She began spreading newspaper under each pumpkin.
Spike did as she said, but looked less than enthused, “Summers, I carried the damn thing here, do I really have to take part in the festivities?”
“Here,” she handed him a lethal looking knife the length of his forearm.
His complaining instantly ceased and his blue eyes lit up, “Ohhhh, you didn’t tell me we were going to kill it.” A smirk came across his lips as he stabbed the sharp instrument deep into the pumpkin, happy for a spot of violence, even if his victim was a large fruit.
_____________________________________________
*DING DONG*
The doorbell rang and Buffy hurried from the kitchen, which she had just dashed towards moments earlier to refill the ever emptying orange bowl of assorted chocolates and candy not seconds earlier.
Her exasperated sighs were diminished when she reached the thick wooden door and opened it to reveal the doorbell ringers -- a half a dozen little people bursting with color and energy. Spiderman stood next to a pirate, a flapper, and Mary Poppins.
Buffy’s bright smile couldn’t help but light at the sight of some of the cutest kids she’d ever seen. All were jumping with excitement at the sight of the bowl at her hip, tripping over their costumes and bumping into each other for first picks.
“You guys look great!” Buffy exclaimed, lowering her bowl to their grabby hands.
Buffy closed the door on the latest trick or treaters. Smiling, she turned into the living room. Her boyfriend, and only active demon tonight, was sprawled across the couch. Xander was lying on the floor, head in his hands. Both were riveted to the television screen. On second thought, maybe not so active. . . .
“Isn’t anyone going to help me here? What if some evil psycho casts a spell and turned everyone into their costumes? Dozens of Cinderella’s could be beating me with sharp sticks with sequenced stars on the ends and the two of you would still be sitting there.” The irony of her joke was lost as the two men continued to watch the tv. Buffy craned her neck to see what they found so interesting. Linus and his blanket went flittering across the screen, describing the fantastic Great Pumpkin. “Oh, brother,” she grumbled.
“Well if they try anything, we’ll beat them up and steal their candy,” Spike deadpanned, eyes never coming off the screen.
Buffy dropped the bowl of candy into Spike’s lap, “Thanks ol’ pal,” sarcastically.
He shook his head in amazement, “I totally understand the appeal now,” Spike marveled quietly at the show.
“You were missing out, my friend,” Xander called back, eyes trained on It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.
Coming out of his reverie, Spike only now realized what his girlfriend had given him. “What am I supposed to do with this?” he asked, hips lifting slightly off the couch, trying to off the offending object, unwilling to touch it with his hands.
“It’s the candy bowl, take over. I need to go raid the kitchen for extra bags of candy, I’m running out.” Buffy turned, planning to search for Dawn’s secret stash. “If someone comes to the door, hand it out.” Her words had him leaping off the couch.
“Oi! Buffy, no. I was willing to be a good sport in the pumpkin patch earlier on account of it’s stealing, but this is too much. I. Do. Not. Celebrate. Halloween. I have my reputation to think of, you know.”
“Spike, it’s not even a celebration anymore. It’s an over commercialized excuse for kids to cover themselves in cheap plastic and get on a sugar high, you can handle it.”
He looked at her and blinked. “We’re obviously separated by denominational differences.” His eyes focused on the foreign object in his hands. “Any advice?” he lifted the bowl.
“Advice? Never jump into a pile of leaves with a wet sucker. Good Lord, Spike, this isn’t brain surgery, kids come to the door, you throw some candy into the bags and they go away.” She scoffed and left him to fend for himself in the foyer when the doorbell rang.
She must have been in there awhile because when the door chimed for the umpteenth time, she heard Spike get up from the couch, grumbling about “bloody stupid holidays.”
Minutes passed and Buffy didn’t hear the door shut. Wondering what could be taking Spike so long, she grabbed the half empty bag of Reese’s peanut butter cups and entered the foyer.
He was leaned against the door frame, bowl in one hand, and a raised eyebrow. His mouth was twisted in a half frown and a look of disdain crossed the rest of his features.
“Spike, what are you . . . Oh my god!” Buffy’s eyes bulged as she followed Spike’s sightline down to the ground before the threshold. Buffy gasped, “That is absolutely the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
There stood a little curly haired blonde boy, no more than three years old. What would have been a poodle head of curls was slicked back against his head. The skinny little baby boy was wearing a makeshift vampire costume complete with black t-shirt, black jeans, and miniature black Reebok’s. His mother had completed the look with plastic vampire teeth. The Lil’ Spike was staring up at his larger, more muscular counterpart with equal parts curiosity and innocence.
Spike stared the boy up and down, “I don’t like the look of ‘im.”
Buffy couldn’t resist temptation and leaned down around Spike, putting her face to face with the little boy, “Now repeat after me, ‘I’m the Big Bad’.”
Spike gently kneed her head out of the way. She giggled as she came up.
“ ‘S not funny, Pet.”
Buffy just winked at him and reached into the bowl he was holding, taking out a bag of cookies, “Here you go, sweetheart,” placing the bag in his pumpkin bucket.
The toddler seemed more than ecstatic with his treat, and retreated back to the edge of the porch, reaching out for his mother’s hand to help him down the stairs.
Buffy closed the door on the cute little scene and turned around, only to bump into Spike’s hard chest. He deposited the candy bowl on the table by the door, freeing his hands to wrap around Buffy’s waist. She gamely wound her arms around his neck and allowed herself to be pulled into his kiss.
Pulling back, Buffy grimaced, “Bach! Bach! Vampire lips!” she mocked disgust, pretending to spit.
He slapped her sashaying bottom as he followed her back into the living room.
“Blockhead!” She called back before curling up on the cushy couch.
“Hey Buffy,” Xander called back, flipping through a book that looked like it should belong to Giles, “Did you know that if a girl puts a sprig of rosemary herb and a silver sixpence under her pillow on Halloween night, she will see her future husband in a dream?” He read.
Buffy rolled her eyes, “Right. Next you’re going to tell me there’s a Great Pumpkin.”
“You don’t believe the story?” Spike mused. He lowered his voice, mouth descending to her neck. “I thought all little girls believed everything that was told to them. I thought little girls were innocent and trusting?” He nipped at the exposed vein.
“Welcome to the 21st century,” she replied, tilting her head while her fingers curled into the hair at the nape of his neck.
A ring of the doorbell interrupted them, Spike growled as Buffy pushed off his lap. Grabbing the bowl of sweets, Spike headed to the doorway behind her, planning to make quick work of the munchkins on the other side.
He opened the door to a little girl and boy. Spike eyed the male, “What in the bloody hell kind of costume is that?”
Xander appeared behind him on his trek to the kitchen, pausing in the stairway, “He’s a World War I flying ace!” He exclaimed.
The little boy looked at Xander appreciatively.
Spike turned to the little girl who stood next to the pilot, “And you are?”
The girl who had been standing on the porch, meekly waiting for her candy, instantly shot to attention. “A fierce warrior!” she hollered into the night sky, showing off her Xena-like costume.
Spike looked impressed. He leaned back, reaching into the pocket of his duster that was hung on the coat-rack. “Here,” he handed the little girl a stake after spinning it through his fingertips deftly.
“Spike!” Buffy yelled, trying to grab it out of his grasp, but the girl was already off with it.
“What? Might save her life one day.” He looked out into the yard in satisfaction as the little girl chased her friend around with her new weapon. Granted, she was holding it backwards.
Spike closed the door and the three returned to the living room. Xander stretched, “What a way to spend Halloween. You just gotta love that Snoopy,” he marveled as the credits on It’s The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown began to roll. He eyed the two on the couch, “Do you want me to show you the dance?”
“NO!”
END
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