Lilah Morgan gingerly knelt between the piles of herbs carefully positioned around her living room floor.

The drop cloth she had put down to protect the pristine white carpet from the various stains associated with any ritual, stuck to her bare legs as she moved slightly to light the various candles around her.

She extinguished her match, and sat back on her heels, critically observing the scene. Yes, it was perfect.

It damned well better be for as much money as she had paid for those summoning rites. But, it would be worth it. Even if the demons she were calling for only caused half the damage they were reportedly good for, it would still be worth it. Every single penny. That reformed cowboy and his pet vampire were going to pay. And whatever underworld shrapnel that hit their do-gooder buddies would just be gravy.

You see, Lilah Morgan was not the happiest evil lawyer in the greater Los Angeles area. She had been betrayed, battered, and bitched at for far too long.

Of course, the fact that she had dished out quite a bit of all three of those things (especially numbers 1 and 3... but, more number 3... lots more number 3, whoo boy...) herself didn�t matter. Well, it didn�t matter to her. She was the *victim*, dammit! And, she was *well* aware of who had perpetrated most of the crimes against her.

Angel, followed extremely closely by the backstabbing bastard, Lindsey.

At first Lilah didn't even mind the abuse their little feud heaped on her; it was part of the job, and she figured Angel and the backstabbing bastard Lindsey were getting pretty raw deals out of the whole thing too. But, when she discovered that their hatred of each other, that every single little iota of animosity between the two of them turned out to be fueled not by loathing, but by lust...

It wouldn't have been so bad if they had continued on their normal path, but backstabbing bastard Lindsey realized that he was being handed a once in a lifetime shot at redemption, and a pretty damn good lay, all in the same package. He got his well toned ass over to the Hyperion and had stayed by Angel's side ever since.

Well, the traitor was going to rue the day he threw her over for that Neanderthal-like dead Irish person.

Lilah picked up a new, fresh out of its wrapper razor blade, and without thinking twice, swept it across the pad of her left forefinger. Blood immediately welled to the surface and she held her dripping hand over the carefully drawn symbol in front of her. Red drops hit the parchment paper and the lines of the drawing started to glow. All she had to do now was wait for her guests to arrive.

Satisfied, Lilah removed herself from the plastic,and walked to the mini bar to fix a drink. She had tons of paperwork to do, and by all accounts it was going to take a while for the spell to-

"-Jesus H.Christ in a hovercraft, could this room be any more friggin' *white*? Ooh and look, a nice cream dropcloth. Who decorated the place, Pat Buchanan?"

Startled, Lilah gasped, simultaneously dropping her Flaming Moe to the $45,000 carpet, which immediately become much less white, and more on fire. She stomped the blaze out.

//He's here already? Wow. I've had *pizzas* arrive slower than this. And using weirder herbs//

Turning, Lilah schooled her face into her "friendly smile" position, after having reviewed and rejected her other stock facial expressions: the "mocking smile", "gloating smile", "placating smile", "I've still got two fully functional limbs smile" and the "I think that's a good idea in and of itself boss, not because you have cloven hooves and a whopping great pitchfork smile".

The smile dimmed down a watt or two

(becoming her 'Hey I didn't know vampires like winetastingsuhohohshit' smile)

when she had to angle her neck down from the ten or so feet above the floor angle she had been expecting to have to greet her demonic guest with, to more of a ten *centimeters* above the floor angle.

The tiny creature in the middle of the pentagram stared at her from down by her feet.

Well, actually, it was kind of between her feet. And looking up. Hey- hang on, she'd had to draw the pentagram skyclad. She wasn't wearing any...

The creature leered. "I thought they put the brakes on the Basic Instinct sequel when David Cronenberg pulled out."

Blushing, Lilah stepped back and sat on a stool by the mini bar.

//Well, it's certainly debauched. It's got to be a demon. Or a frat boy.//

"Err... hello. You're..." -she snuck a look at the name written in biro on the back of her hand, trying not to be obvious about it- "....Ragnar?"

It nodded, causing th barbed wire wrapped around its face to gleam almost as much as its eyes.

"I expected someone a bit more...statuesque."

"Bah! You want statuesque, call Acathala. Evil comes in all shapes and sizes, babe. I mean take He-Who-Kills fer instance.Chucky. Yoda."

Lilah frowned. "But...Yoda wasn't evil."

"...Oh no? try walking around with Frank Oz' hand up *your* tuchas 24-7 and see how sunny yer disposition gets."

Lilah tried to suppress an irritated sigh. Big surprise, it didn't work.

"Look, clearly someone who was not me has made a mistake. I wanted a ferocious fear demon. Forgive me if I'm less than thrilled with a bad complexioned reject from Darby O'Gill and the Little People."

The tiny face scowled. Crawling up the arm of the (white) sofa beside Lilah, Ragnar stood on the seat back so that they were face to face.

"Back off, sister. I may be small, but I can make you know terror."

Lilah scoffed."Yeah right. Go get Joe Dante to splash some water on you and make you a friend."

"You imply I'm a *gremlin*? Those cute little fuzzy...aargh!" It sneered, then waved a tiny claw.

"Tenebrosum!"

Lilah gasped in horror as the shirley temple she was preparing suddenly twitched and came to life with a wet scream. The cocktail onion floating in it morphed into...Shirley Temple.

"On the good ship, Lollipop, it's a short trip to the candy shohmygawd!"

The tiny decorative paper parasol in the drink shimmered and became razor sharp rusty metal, impaling the pickle-orphan through the midsection. The tiny girl turned her head to Lilah just as it morphed into Lilah's own face.

"Aaargh!" it shrieked. The bladed parasol ripped into mini-Lilah's arm, cutting off her right hand.

Disgusted, Lilah made to throw the drink away- but she couldn't. Her arm-

//Jesus...//

Her right arm was made of plastic!

Lilah raised the cold, dead prosthesis to shock-wide lips and pressed, knowing even as she did so that it wasn't enough to stifle the scream bursting from behind her fingers...

Her *warm* fingers.

//...Wha?// Lilah looked down.

Her right hand was whole. Flesh. The shattered crystal goblet rolling around the table top spilled nothing more than melting ice and a wedge of lime.

Ragnar was watching her with a venomous glee that made even Kate Lockley look like Carol Brady (and not just in a regular episode-we're talking A VERY BRADY CHRISTMAS here).

"I take it from your reaction you don't want a refund?"

Lilah looked up, dazed, absently clenching and unclenching her fists. "...Huh?"

It sighed and waved a hand at the pentagram.

"Oh! Oh no, that was...My God, that was fucking *great*! No, a refund won't be necessary."

The diminutive diabolical denizen nodded.

"Excellent. God knows where I would've found a replacement, anyway. Virgins are so scarce in LA the whole of West Hollywood has to be regularly fumigated for unicorns."

Lilah was full of anticipatory glee. She began pacing the room and talking to herself, as those of an evil persuasion are wont to do.

"Oh yeah. Wait til Easter Island boy and his pet farm-no-hand get a load of you! I can't wait! Lindsey'll have a coronary right in his achy-breaky left ventricle!"

The sound of a tiny throat clearing.

"....Loathe as I am to interrupt this truly stellar psychotic episode, Miss, we need this "Angel's" location before we can do anything."

Lilah turned.

"We? what do you mean? weeEEEEEEEEEEE!"

Where one tiny fear demon once stood, there were now over twenty.

Ragnar looked at her. "What? Group assaults are quite ordinary. Fear's been our family business for generations."

"Really? I thought Gachnar was the last of your kind- actually, I was expecting another species of fear elemental- I thought your race was extinct."

Ragnar stopped. "Last? The Patriarch is dead?"

"Well...yes...Didn't you...I thought you..."

The lilliputian legion muttered and growled darkly amongst themselves. Finally, Ragnar stepped forward.

"This changes everything. We'll have to solve your problems another time. Gachnar must be avenged. Terribly sorry. Just write us out an I.O.U. In your own blood, of course."

The demons formed themselves into a single-file line and marched for the door. A chorus of "Hi-Hoh" was surely imminent.

Lilah was having none of that. "I'm having none of that." She moved between the tiny army and the door. "I paid lots of good blood money that was technically mine to get a fear demon. I want fear. Right *now*!

Ragnar sighed. "Oh, very well. Fear it is." And waved its arms again. The floor beneath Lilah's feet suddenly vanished, and she found herself standing on the thin air that was until a moment ago the floor of her apartment.

Her *penthouse* apartment.

Ragnar and his kin gathered around the hole in the floor and watched the screaming woman fall away from them until she was just a tiny dot in the distance. A tiny dot shrieking colorful and still surprisingly audible obscenities that were presently cut off with a loud squelch.

Turning for the door, they filed out of the room, ready to track down whoever had murdered their beloved progenitor. Ragnar paused for a moment and looked back at the room.

"Another satisfied customer."

"There you go." Xander sat back and proudly examined his work. "All fixed."

"Thanks, really." Graham said as he examined Xander, not the work.

"It was no problem." The younger man stood and began carefully putting away his tools. "And you shouldn�t have waited so long to call I would have come over any time."

He would have come over any... Graham couldn't help but smile, just ever so slightly, nothing more than a quick dimpling, in fact. Xander meant about the table, he reminded himself.

Just about the table.

"Oh, I didn't wait very long."

He had just taken enough time to hide the hand saw in the back of his closet and sweep up the wood shavings, before he picked up the phone and...

Xander frowned. "But, you and Riley have been living here for almost three months."

"Yeah." Graham quizzically looked at the younger man for a moment before things clicked and the backtracking began.

"Oh! Oh, but, we, I... we didn't notice it until just... uh, this morning."

"You didn't notice it?"

"Uh. No."

"Three months and you didn't notice that one of the legs of your kitchen table was shorter than the others by about an inch?"

"Uh. Yes."

"Huh. And the two of you used to protect the country. Makes me feel nice and safe."

"Well, we don't normally use the kitchen all that much" Graham said in his defense.

"Okay." Xander grinned, and let that particular facet of the subject drop. "Anyway, now it'll be nice and level for when you don't use it. Sorry that the one I put on doesn't match a little better."

"That doesn't matter. Or, maybe sometime you could come by and replace the others too."

Graham blinked. That last part had been out loud, hadn't it?

Xander made a noncommittal noise and bent over to retrieve the massacred table leg, hiding the silent snickers on his face and giving Graham a very nice view of his ass in the process.

"Have to say this is pretty weird, though", he said as he straightened back up.

"Weird?"

"Well, yeah. It almost looks like someone deliberately hacked into it."

"Those... crazy... former tenants."

Xander held the piece of wood about an inch from the end of his nose, his eyes narrow in contemplation.

"In fact, it almost looks like..."

Graham swallowed. "Yes?"

"It was done recently."

"Uh..."

The younger man smiled broadly. "Guess you guys really don't use this table much. I mean, it's been three months and you didn't even wear it down."

"Right. Three months. Crazy former tenants." The ex-Marine cleared his throat in lieu of sagging in relief.

"So, how much do I, we... I owe you?"

Xander pretended to think for a moment. "A beer."

"A beer?"

"Yeah. Tonight. At the Bronze. You're going to buy me a beer."

"Oh. Yeah. I can do that." Graham felt the corners of his mouth start to tug upwards again.

A night with Xander at the Bronze. It was going to be amazing. It had to be amazing. Unless, of course, one of the other Scoobies got wind of the situation. If anyone tagged along, it would be such a nightmare.

//Stupid Buffy//.

//Stupid Slayer Patrol//.

//Stupid Halloween//.

//Stupid Buffy going on Stupid Slayer Patrol instead of out with me on Stupid Halloween//.

//Stupid Kindergarten-ey Thought Processes//.

Riley Finn was pissed. Really pissed.

Not that he occasionally didn't think unflattering thoughts about his girlfr... ex-girlfriend when he was *not* angry, but those unflattering thoughts usually revolved around her inability to pay attention to labels on various bottles before using them, be they that hair-color from last month.

("Eeeeew! *Riiileeeeeeeeeeeeey!* I used Spike's bleach! Getitoffgetitoffgetit-")

or last night's rubbing-alcohol that she mistook for condom lube

("Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrgh! Buffffeeeeeeeeeeey! Getitoffgetitoffgetit-")

But tonight his ticked-offishness had nothing to do with red-faced, giggling and pointing nurses in the Emergency Room.

He'd known that Buffy was a bit -wary- about the whole Halloween thing, but the Abrahms Costume Party was legendary in the Sunnydale under 30's set, and it's not like she'd be *talking* to Parker or anything- Not without a Kimba the White Lion suit or papier mache Foghorn Leghorn head to hide behind, anyway.

Besides, Riley'd suggested that he and Buffy go as a theme couple, hadn't he? He'd even already thought of the theme, and got the costumes. Respectively, Adam and Eve; and a rubber snake plus four fig leaves (one for him, three for her).

But just the mention of the idea had Buffy going into her ScrunchFace and spitting more venomous mucilage than a lactose intolerant Fyarl after snacking on a toddler who'd just had chocolate milk for play-lunch

//Note to self: think up less gross-out metaphors//

and screeching at him how she couldn't even think of the word "Adam" without getting the bio-mechanical heebie-jeebies, or look at a rubber snake without picturing Sunnydale's Mayor.

-So then of course he'd done the whole understanding boyfriend thing and told her that he didn't mind *who* she used to date, even if they were older and in politics, and that he was comfortable with his own body and didn't care how big the Mayor's "snake" had been, because he thought *his* fit her just fine and...and...

As it turns out, it was a good thing that he *was* comfortable with his own body, because two seconds later she'd announced them "over", and that if he ever came near her again she'd make Anyanka look like Bambi's Mom, before tossing him out of her bedroom window, totally bare-assed, stark-bollock naked.

Knowing that reasoning with her would be useless, the former Commando Commander sighed deeply and set off for his nice, sane, shared apartment. He had half a mind to ask Graham to go to Parker's party with him, as Adam and *Steve*.

//Only using two out of the four fig leaves- we'd get fifty percent of the costume bond back//

Three blocks and eight encounters with horrified (and, as of tonight, permanently emotionally scarred) groups of prepubescent Trick or Treaters later, and he remembered he was walking home in the nude. Birthday suits were fine for birthdays, but not really appropriate as Halloween attire.

Riley picked up a ghost costume -a large white sheet with eyeholes- one of the fleeing toddlers had dropped

(said toddler was now at home in bed, quaking and moaning to her teddy bear about the "natural blonde, six-packed, cut boogeyman")

and pulled it over his head. Being made for a child, it only covered him to the upper thighs, leaving all of his legs and a fair glimpse of Riley-unmentionables visible, but it would have to do. If pressed, he could always claim he was the Ghost of Wedgies Past, or Casper after he'd reached puberty and They'd Dropped.

Trudging on, Riley came to a large Graveyard. Up until last week it had been a Pizza Hut, but hey- Sunnydale.

He hadn't really checked this cemetery out yet, and it *was* on his way home, so he took a shortcut through it, a sudden chilly breeze blowing through his hair

(don't ask at which end).

A few minutes later and Riley was enjoying a pleasant walk through the graves, and also enjoying the brisk night air on his not-quite-naked skin. So far, this boneyard was doing quite well in terms of vampire infestation- out of twenty or so crypts he'd peeked into, only five had contained HSTs, all of whom had taken one look at him and fled- though, given that they yelled warnings to each other about "a Poltergeist on the Bang", that may have had something to do with his sheet and semi-aroused state than his tough GI moves.

Turning a corner and he was surprised to catch dim movement up ahead, and the sound of a voice, humming contentedly to itself.

A male voice.

A suspiciously familiar, Cockney, male voice.

He sighed and moved forward quickly.

"Spike! What're you up to?"

The blond demon whirled around with a decidedly high-pitched "Eeep!" that he immediately tried to pass off as a growl. The night-adapted cat pupils that had all but swallowed the sardonic blue of his eyes narrowed in suspicion as he recognized his assailant.

"Finn... Figures."

The eyes widened again slightly when he took in Riley's state of dress, or rather, lack of it.

"What... You've decided to go commando literally this year? Or are you and the Slayer strumpet playing some twisted new little Scooby sex game? Let me guess- you're the *Vanilla Ghost*, am I right?"

Riley narrowed his jaw

(not that it showed)

and attempted to adjust his eye holes to emit the proper "bite me, HST" glower, which only made his hemline ride up higher.

Spike began to drool, unconsciously.

"Well Farmboy, I must admit you make a better ghost than Red ever did".

//Huh? Willow? //

"Knock it off, Spike, and answer the question. What're you doing here?"

Spike stuck out his lower lip defiantly, whilst keeping his hands firmly behind his back and attempting to lean nonchalantly against the crypt behind him.

"Me? Nuffing..."

For the umpteenth time, Riley wished he'd never taught Buffy how to play grid-iron. That way, he'd be in some god-forsaken Belize jungle with Graham right now, bug-bitten, panther-pounced, and happy. But no, she couldn't just let him out of her life- she had to throw that damn pigskin and knock him out of the helicopter. True, he did tumble Graham out with him when he fell unconscious from the whirlybird, so at least his best friend was here too; but he also landed on a gloating Spike- knocking his chip loose. The vampire was still harmless, but the chip had apparently been pressing on the erotic centers of his brain, causing his feelings of "love" for Buffy. Now that it was just rattling around his centuries old bonce, the vampire was thinking up new and interesting ways to torment the Slayer and her boy-toy on a daily basis.

"You're up to something Spike. I can tell. Heck, I can practically smell it. Hang on; I *can* smell it -what is that- Paint?"

Spike immediately attempted to look innocent. It was quite a frightening thing to witness.

"...Hang on, I see- *Spike*!"

The empty crypt behind Spike's narrow frame had been defaced.

Thoroughly.

Huge, fluorescent green letters proclaimed:

Riley jumped swiftly, wrenching Spike's arms from behind his back. The vampire's hands were a glowing lime, and held two large and incriminating aerosol cans.

"Um...okay this looks kinda bad, but..."

Riley grabbed the spray paint away from him. "Honestly Spike, sometimes I just can't believe you."

"...er, really... I can explain, I can..."

Riley turned to the crypt and began spraying. "Almost five years in Sunnydale and you still can't spell "SUMMERS?"

"...You see there was this paint elemental that I was fighti- whauh?"

He turned and watched Riley finish spell-checking his graffiti.

"You... you're not mad? "

Spike attempted to peer over Riley's shoulder for evidence of Bezoar intrusion.

Riley was shaking his head. "Nah, I'm not mad. Buffy and I... well, it wasn't working out."

"Oooh, she *dumped* you. Lucky she just showed you the door, mate, instead of sucking you down to Hell."

"Hey look, I know she's got a thing or two to learn about fellati-oh, this is a Hellmouth thingey, right?"

"Mmhmmm. So- Peaches, Parker, kinda-sorta-me and now you, eh Luv?" Spike threw a commiserating arm around the Soldier's shoulders. "We should start ourselves up a support group."

Despite himself, and the company he was keeping, Riley felt his mood lightening and smiled.

"What to call it though? The Scooby Gang Scrappies? The Slayer's cast-offs?"

Spike thought for a moment, then shook his head.

"Nah...I was thinking more along the lines of "We're All Not Kinky Enough for Rotten Slayers."

Riley half-frowned. "It's a bit long, Spike."

Spike nodded. "Yeah, but it's got a great acronym."

A beat whilst Riley did the mental calculations, then the large Iowan brayed hysterical laughter, slumping in a fit of uncontrollable giggles in a surprised but quickly delighted Spike's arms.

Spike realized that his hands were resting in interesting places of Farm-boy's anatomy and enjoying the experience, at exactly the same time that Riley realized he was thrusting forward into Spike's wonderful hands, and Riley's self-same anatomy began to enthusiastically show its approval.

"Y'know, Spike... speaking of... that" Riley blushed a little, then a lot more as the British demon tightened his hold. "There's this party I was going to tonight, and my costume kind of needs a partner..."

Spike moved his lips closer to Riley's, still not quite believing this was happening- then suddenly put his hand over the Commando's mouth, stopping the breathy moans in their tracks.

"Mmmphhh? Spifffmmmphe?"

"Shhh.... I thought I heard something."

Both of them turned around. And gasped.

Apart from the crypt they were still leaning against, the entire graveyard had gone.

In its place was a gigantic cornfield.

Spike walked a few paces forward. The corn stalks were thickly grown all around them, several feet above head height. He kicked at one viciously, and Riley winced in involuntary cereal crop-sympathy.

"Well, that's just Sunny-fuckin'-dale all over innit?"

The vampire waved an angry hand at the impossible foliage.

"Every single time a bloke's trying to get a nice, uncomplicated, decent bit of nookie, the ruddy Hellmouth coughs something else up."

Riley had moved to Spike's side. "You think this is supernatural?"

"Of *course it's bleedin' supernatural, Luv!" Spike soothed the harshness of his words by brushing Riley's face with his thumb. "Who else would've whacked a soddin' great cornfield in the middle of fuck-all? the Rice Krispy Elves?"

Riley was about to respond, when, suddenly, *something* reached out and yanked Spike into the dense, corn-y undergrowth.

"Spike!"

Riley jumped through the wall of stalks after his new...friend.

//Bonding through Buffy-bashing... Whodathunkit? Talk about strange bedfellows... literally, I hope... //

Pushing the stalks aside until he came to a small clearing.

"*Spike*!"

The vampire was flat on his back and writhing. There was -something- astride him. Anything riding Spike that wasn't 6 foot 3" of blonde, Iowan militia was not a good thing.

Yellow eyes met panicked blue.

"Get out of 'ere, Farm-boy! Run!"

"Not on your lif...over my dead bod...*no *way*!"

Riley ran over and pushed whatever it was off his friend's bony frame. The thing snarled, whirled, and advanced on him instead.

It was a scarecrow. Tall, leaking hay from interesting places, rags and a thick stick where the stomach and digestive system should be

(though any resemblance to Ally McBeal is strictly coincidental)

Its head was a crudely carved turnip, that even as he watched, morphed into a root vegetable fascimile of The Slayer.

"Hey lover," Beety Summers gurgled. "Wanna help me put the 'sweet' in "sweet potato?"

Spike had leapt to his feet. He grabbed Riley by the shoulders. "Snap outta it, Luv! Worzel Gummidge 'ere ain't on her own! *Look*!"

Even as Spike grabbed Riley's hand and began to run out of the clearing, dozens more scarecrows emerged from the rows. Those closest to Riley morphed into sackcloth and rag clones of Buffy and Faith, whilst those nearest to Spike became vegetable versions of Drusilla and Harmony.

"Brains..." They all gurgled. "If we only had your brains..."

Spike and Riley paled and ran hand in hand from the clearing, hoping to stumble across the end of the rows. After a few minutes of breathless running though, it became apparent that there *was* no end. This crop went on longer than the director's cut of Field of Dreams.

"Wait a minute..." Spike, gasping from the effort of running

(please don't think about the logistics of that for too long)

pulled Riley down with him into a thick patch of burrs that screened them from sight.

"I get it now...they're our fears! Something's using them against us! Dru's cloth dolls always gave me the willies, and didn't you always fear you'd never get off the farm?"

Riley nodded, then ducked his head as several scarecrows ran past, pulling Spike under the sheet with him and throwing brambles over it as camouflage, just before several pairs of stockinged feet

(actually made of stockings)

charged past their hiding place.

Spike's eyes had widened, and not just because they found themselves between two warm and firm commando pecs.

"Crap! I just remembered something Xan told me! He was talking about some sort of demon that feeds off terror!"

"What?! When was this?"

"Sometime early in Season Fou...I mean, last year."

More feet trudged past, this time belonging to a tiny red-headed woman and a brunette man in red speedos, having an argument.

"I'm telling you, Scully, corn is *wind* pollinated... Bees have nothing to do with it..."

"Oh, ram it up your probe-hole, nutcase. At least I *have* a theory...You've been too busy 'consorting' with Krycek to even bother lately..."

The voices receded into the distance, and Riley

-eventually-

moved out from under the vampire.

"We can't hide here forever, Spike."

Spike pulled him back down. "I'm game to try if you are, Luv."

Riley grinned despite himself. "Those things are everywhere. If there's some kind of demon loose like you say, we'll need help. Of all the times to forget my cell phone...." He looked down at his naked body. "Mind you....storing it would have been a problem..."

Spike moved a black-clawed hand from Riley's abs long enough to produce a phone.

"You've got one? How?"

"...I nicked it off Bitchy when I was goin' through her purse; spray paint costs money, y'know." He punched in a number.

He gasped as a large commando hand massaged the front of his pants.

"We get out of this, Spike, I'm gonna milk you drier than those cows I sold to the Jerky factory..."

Spike groaned, almost, but not quite, drowning out the deep voice that came from the cell phone.

"Angel Investigations; We help the Helpless."

Xander critically inspected himself in the full length mirror that hung on the back of his bedroom door. According to Anya, the costume he had chosen practically oozed authenticity, but he was still a bit unsure over whether or not he could pull it off.

That is, until he turned around, his neck craning to see his reflection, and realized just how amazing his ass looked encased in dead cow.

Oh, baby.

There is a power that comes from knowing, absolutely, positively, without a shadow of a doubt, that you are the hottest thing in black leather since a certain brooding, pulse impaired, Irishman decided homicidal maniac was the 'look' for Spring '98.

//Eat your heart out, Deadboy//

Xander grinned wickedly as he thought about unleashing the full brunt of that power on an unsuspecting former commando.

Oh, yeah, this was going to be a great night.

Lindsey silently bemoaned the Plymouth's lack of any 'Oh Shit' handles while Angel played very fast and extremely loose with the basic rules of highway safety as they barreled away from L.A.

Of course, the vampire had grown up over two hundred years ago. He had never had to sit through junior high lectures on responsible driving followed by some of the most disturbing movies this side of home videos featuring Lilah Morgan, pre-nose job.

Those morbid,'educational' films had stuck with the young Mr. McDonald, and after gaining his learner's permit, he had spent many nights dreaming about being chased by a school bus full of bloodied children screaming at him to wear his seat belt and signal properly.

Now, as the black convertible roared up the road towards the mouth of hell itself, it was all coming back to the blue eyed lawyer. His fingers tightened convulsively on the passenger door's frame as they sped around an eighteen wheeler.

"Angel!" Lindsey's normally controlled, dulcet voice was strained. "I know you're worried, but TRUCK! it's not going to do anybody any good if CAR!! we both end up greasy splotches on the OH GOD, GUARDRAIL!!!"

Angel smoothly steered the car off the shoulder and back into the right lane. "Calm down, Lindsey, before you give yourself a coronary. And could you please stop making the sign of the cross while I'm driving? Thanks."

"Coronary? Coronary?! I should be so lucky!" Lindsey shrunk down in his seat and screwed his eyes shut.

"Look," Angel swerved around an incredibly slow minivan. "With all the research you compiled about me, you must have figured out that my relationship with Spike has always been..."

"-Nuts?"

"...Violative. But he asked me for help. He called and asked *me* for *help*."

"Okay, I can kind of see why that might alarm you... and, granted, he did sound like he was somehow being assaulted when he called, but, once again, killing us isn't going to help him or the Slayer any."

"Your doubt in my driving skills is very disconcerting. And, I know that for the most part, Spike can take care of himself." Angel's hands tightened on the steering wheel.

"But, Buffy's not who I'm worried about."

This was not turning out to be a great night.

Xander warily peeked out from behind a auspiciously placed overgrown hedge and scanned the seemingly deserted street for any sign of the...

It wasn't fair! It just wasn't fair, dammit!

Xander had had it all figured out, and this year was supposed to be one of the safe ones. Halloween Junior year -evil, Senior year -nothing, Buffy and Willow's Freshman year at college -evil, last year -noth...

Oops.

Okay, so maybe that explained why he was being chased by a gaggle of Oompa-Loompas.

Yes, those Oompa-Loompas. The little green haired, orange skinned chocolate nazis had suddenly appeared after Xander had torn the wrapper off a candy bar

(he'd needed some kind of sustenance to get him to The Bronze)

and started chasing him, waving bats and clubs that looked suspiciously like giant Twix sticks.

A screech of tires from the street in front of him. A car-horn awooga-ing the first few bars of "The Candyman Can."

Peering through the bush, and Xander had to stifle an unseemly yelp. A Ferrari, made entirely of gingerbread

(with licorice side panels and carmel apple headlights)

was parked only a few feet from his hiding place. A (literal) baker's dozen of the diminutive jaffa-hued freaks were gathered round the car.

Some of the Oompa-Loompas were still in the process of disembarking from the hotcake hotrod, clown-car fashion. Others were arguing in saccharine, obscenely catchy riddles about who got to "thumpa lumpa" their quarry; another was refueling the gas tank with a mixture of pop-rocks and soda.

Two other Oompa Loompas waved oversized legume clubs at the flock of seagulls that was diving and wheeling at them, attempting to eat their mode of transport.

One of them turned to its companion:

The other Oompa-Loompa looked vaguely ill.

"Honestly Murray, that was pretty pathetic. Even for us."

"Eat my curly-whirlies, fuckface. Now, find Harris, and let's see if M&M's can melt in the *lungs*..."

Xander gulped.

From one of the pockets of its disturbingly revealing lederhosen, one of the creatures produced the chocolate wrapper Xander had dropped in his haste to get away from Hell's elves. It waved it under its nose, wafting the rich scent towards its nostrils as if decanting a fine wine.

"MMMMmmmhhh" It rubbed its little belly. "Such delicious, mouth-watering chocolate. And almost completely un-eaten..."

//Dammit// thought Xander as his wonderfully defined abdomen threatened to rumble //I'm dealing with chocolate professionals here. Real coco-buffs//

The Oompa-Loompa held the bar up in the air.

"Oh *Xaaaaander*... You've won a Golden *Tiiiicket*..."

Another Oompa-Loompa came over, chortled and grabbed its crotch lewdly. "Yeah, I've got his golden ticket right here"....

Reaching into the trunk of the Ferrari, they produced a peanut butter cup so huge it appeared to have been sneezed out of the noses of one of the Stone leaders on Mount Rushmore in an allergic reaction to the mess that was the last presidential election. Two of the Oompa- Loompas shrieked high-pitched profanities in rhyming slang as they were crushed to orange pulp under its weight.

Xander was thankful that his stomach was under the control of his brain, or he'd have run out there to his rich, creamy doom already. As it was, it jumped around in his belly, tugging at his small intestine like a attention-deficit pit-bull on a leash.

The Oompa-Loompas were growing impatient. As they always did when they grew impatient (or happy, or melancholy, or frank, or nauseous, or just plain sadistic) they began to rhyme.

Xander made to crawl unobtrusively away from his hiding place, until he was far enough away to run.

Halfway down the street though, his traitorous stomach finally betrayed him.

"Guuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggle"

(I know- but honestly, after looking at Xander's abs, who could possibly stay mad at them for long?)

and Xander was mortified

//ooh- bad choice of words//

to see the ten remaining Oompah-Loompahs break through the bush and charge at him, now wielding Ninja Throwing Stars made of bear claw donuts and bayonets comprised of sharpened candy canes.

Xander stood up, sighing.

"Oh... Fudge"

".. .Jhe... Fyarl... Fyarl... Bacchi... A Skilosh giving me the eye near the drug store... Petroleum Gremlin... Oh, there's some Bad Hair Day Elementals over by that Barber Shop..."

" Hmm- that last one could be- nah, it's a long shot; if it was He-Who-Makes-Corduroy-Strangely-Appealing we'd be on to something though..."

"Angel... NoNoNo, keep your eyes on the road! I thought we were supposed to be looking for Spike."

"We are."

"So why have you got me doing the Hellmouth equivalent of bird-watching?"

A sigh.

"Lindsey. Babe. Honey. Spike mooched around with me for one hundred and fifty years. I'm sure he picked up a few pointers. He can look after himself for a while longer."

"Yes, but how how much of those hundred and fifty years together did you actually exchange pointers about *fighting* instead of about which spots you liked to lick on each other, or hair care tips?"

"Umm... Okay, You have a point, but I'm still confident he can, er, handle himself, for a bit longer. I've got to rescue Xa... Hey, cool, cobblestones! I haven't seen a cobblestone road for eighty years- let's go down it."

"Wait... Cobblestones? Angel, those aren't cobblestones, they're points of local historical interestOHMYGODWEREDRIVINGONTHESIDEWALK!"

"...Okay, okay, calm down Linds. Back on the asphalt again now, see? We didn't hit those convent-schoolkids, and they have to sign permission slips to go on field trips anyway, right? *Relax*, Linds- I know I don't have circulation as such, but whatever I've got, you're cutting it off..."

Angel smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner as his rattled lover slowly unclenched the undeath grip around a vampire thigh, and pried his other hand off the dash. Of course the dashboard *clock* now read "29:KN$", but time meant nothing to a vampire anyway. Except maybe a Swiss one.

Angel sighed again. "...And stop trying to pry my jaws open Linds- we discussed this, and I told you I'm not gonna turn you til you're thirty."

Whilst Lindsey slowly remembered how to form words other than "Forgive me Father for I have sinned", Angel decided to answer the human's question.

"I've got you on spectre-spotting duty, Linds, because I'm looking for very rare, dangerous and bizarre supernaturals."

Lindsey stopped his jaw twitching with a hand. "But what for?"

"-Because wherever the scarcest, deadliest and ludicrous-est demons congregate, I'm sure Xander won't be far away. It's a gift."

"Wait... Xander? ... Xander *Harris*? You know about Operation Sardine Can?

Angel was staring at his boyfriend like he'd grown two extra heads, or turned into a Parrpursmyrth demon

(same difference)

"Operation *What*?"

"It was one of Old Man Wolfram's ongoing projects- making a fabric that actually attracted demons. They were gonna have it made into odour eaters for the Pope's doc martens."

"-Go on."

"They needed a test subject, so they picked Harris- he wore such insanely spectrumed clothes no one else would touch them- best way to keep the fabric from premature release into the wider community. Anyway- it worked; the demon-attracting material was a great success."

"So Xander's wardrobe is composed of this stuff?"

"Yep, all of it. We're calling it LaVellecro."

"...Oh God. If *Spike* needs my help against this demon or whatever, imagine what it could do to Xander..."

Lindsey was strangely quiet. Strange because this time it didn't seem to revolve around Angel's colourful interpretation of road regulations. To test this theory, Angel deliberately ran four red lights.

(well, the first one was deliberate)

Nope, nothing.

"Linds... what's wrong?"

".................. Nothing."

"Linds, you're brooding. Believe me when I say I'm an expert on brooding, and that's what you're doing."

"I *don't* brood. I periodically wallow in a period of non-productive melancholy introspection."

"Like I said."

"Okay, fine! Maybe I am! So sue me- Oh wait, *I'm* the lawyer- I'll sue myself once I'm finished brooding!"

Angel actually managed to slow the Plymouth down until it no longer resembled Stephen King's Christine in one of its snitty moods, and glanced over at his lover. "Honey, I-"

"-Don't pull the honey card on me! You want to save this Xander's ass because you *want* this Xander's ass!"

"What? Whatever gave you that idea, Linds? Whenever Xan and I found ourselves in the same room we'd argue incessantly, scream, threaten each other, beat each other black and bl- oh..."

Lindsey acknowledged his point-winnage by folding his arms across his chest.

Angel reached out and put a hand on Lindsey's knee. "Linds... Xander and I are just friends. Yes, I had a crush on him, and Yes, I think it was mutual, but I was going out with Buffy and he was dating Cordelia... I think we were both just craving some non-self-centered gorgon-related action."

Lindsey looked at him hopefully. "Really? So when you fought with him, it didn't mean as much as when you fought with me?"

"Lindsey, love... Whose hand did I cut off?"

Lindsey snuggled up close to the vampire, putting an arm round his shoulders "Aaaaaw.... baby..."

Some seconds passed.

"So- what does Xander look like, anyway?"

"There's a photo in the glove compartment; careful, it's... sticky."

Lindsey opened the glove compartment and extracted a small manila folder labelled "S'dale High Sports Day- Freestyle Championship Finals" and examined the contents.

Three seconds later he was pressing his own foot down next to Angel's on the accelerator pedal.

"C'mon, c'mon... can't this thing go any faster?!"

Xander was surrounded. He had tried to run, but there were too many of them, all swarming around like ants after a dropped piece of chocolate cake at a picnic.

Everywhere he turned he saw a different Oompa-Loompa, varying in appearance only by the assorted confectionary weapons each one was wielding.

He flinched as a licorice whip stung his cheek, let out a little cry as a jaw breaker mace bounced off his head, and fell to his knees under a barrage of jelly beans.

This was it? This was how it was all going to end?

Out of all the possible ways Xander could have gone out, this was by far the suckiest, and considering what his normal diet consisted of, most embarrassing.

And, the worst part? Graham was never going to get to appreciate his new leather pants.

Wait a minute. That's right. He was wearing leather pants... and it was time he started acting like it!

// WWAD?//

(What would Angelus do?)

Xander felt a surge of anger rush through him. With a growl he lifted his head. Several of the nearest Oompas, the ones who could see the slightly evil glint in his eyes, backed up a bit.

"Shut your rhyming little mouths before I pull out your teeth and feed them to you!!!"

The Oompas looked aghast as Xander rose to his feet. A cream puff flew at his head, but the human adroitly caught it in mid air.

"You know", Xander speculatively stared at the killer pastry. "I once ate a package of pizza rolls, a jar of marshmallow creme, four tacos, and an entire bag of Hershey's kisses in one sitting; not because someone dared me to, but because I *wanted* to. Xander Harris does not fear food! FOOD. FEARS. ME."

And with that declaration, Xander began to take back his snacks.

"Well?"

Lindsey sighed. "Nothing."

"Damn!" Angel beat his hand against the steering wheel.

"Look, maybe this driving around thing isn't the best way to go at it. Maybe we should just head to places he's been known to frequent."

"Maybe..."

"Angel, you have to admit that there's a snowball's chance in hell that Xander's actually going to fall in our laps."

Unfortunately for both men, and the car's paint job, it wasn't a burgundy speedo wearing Xander Harris

(Lindsey pretty much *knew* he would be wearing more clothes than that when they found him, but a formerly evil guy could still dream, couldn't he?)

that fell, not into either of the men's laps, but onto the hood of the convertible.

A rousing chorus of "What The Hell!!"s were accompanied by the squealing of tires and a tiny scream

"OOOMMPPAAAaaaaaaaaaa"

as Angel slammed on the brakes and whatever it was rolled forward off of the car, and landed on the pavement. Without thinking twice, the vampire gunned the gas and with a loud 'Thu-Thump!', the Plymouth got revenge on its assailant.

"Okay, that was not only disturbing, that was disgusting" Lindsey made a face. "And, can I also say, I'm so glad you insisted on driving *your* car."

"What in the Hellmouth was that thing?" Angel looked around him wildly, half expecting more white overall wearing whatever-it-wases to fly at them.

"I think, I mean, I've only seen the movie once, but it looked like a..." Lindsey trailed off, eyes now locked on another unbelievable sight. "Uh, is that who I think it is?"

Angel followed his lover's gaze, and just knew his eyes bugged out when they found what Lindsey had spotted.

There, a little farther down the street, was Xander Harris, wearing leather pants, and beating the tar out of some three foot tall demony looking things.

Wait... wearing leather pants?!?

"Eat fist, you Manic Panic abusers!" could be clearly heard over the din of high pitched screams and the sickening thud of what appeared to be an over sized Sugar Daddy hitting orange flesh.

Angel and Lindsey glanced at each other, then they both, rather hesitantly, got out of the car.

"Xander?" the vampire called out.

The leather wearing human stopped his assault and looked up. He blinked a few times, and let go of a fistful of green hair. "Deadboy?"

The remaining Oompas that didn't already resemble melted orange creamsicles dipped in strawberry sauce saw an opportunity for escape and crawled away into the shadows as the human was occupied greeting his old... well, whatever it was Xander and Angel used to be.

Xander's eyes narrowed, but he didn't give chase. There was suddenly a more important demon to deal with. He approached the convertible, hands still comfortably grasping his caramel club of doom. There was no point throwing away good food, er, weapons.

"What are you doing back in Sunnydale?"

Xander gave Lindsey a thorough once over-

(Bad leather pants. Save the leers for yummy blue-eyed ex-commandos)

"-And who's your friend?"

Lindsey grinned and extended his hand, but Angel stepped between the two men, shielding the lawyer with his body.

"Oh, what, you keep half naked pictures of him in your glove compartment, but I can't shake his hand?" Lindsey snorted.

"You keep *what* in your glove compartment?"

Embarrassment and anger fought for dominance on Angel's face, his features finally settling into a scowl that was totally ruined by the blush covering his cheeks. He cleared his throat. "That's not really Xander."

Lindsey frowned and checked the picture he was still holding, and would probably continue to hold until someone pried it away from him. "It isn't?"

"It isn't? Wait, I mean, huh? Of course I'm me."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"*No*, you're not."

"*Yes*, I a... Angel, I was just almost beaten to death by a bunch of extras from a Gene Wilder movie. Now I ask you; who else could get into *that* kind of trouble?"

"-Well..." the creature had a point, but Angel shook his head. "Your clothes. The real Xander would never wear something like that, no matter how... um..."

"... Completely edible they made him look?" Lindsey pipped in.

"... Exactly."

"That's the whole point; and thank you, by the way" Xander grinned at the young lawyer. "This is my Halloween costume."

"Ooo-kay."

"I'm a vampire." Xander rushed to clarify. "... I mean, I'm the vampire version of myself from that alternate universe Anya created when she was a Vengeance Demon."

Angel blinked a few times. "It's... very nice. Very... realistic."

"Thanks." Xander looked down at himself. "Anya said I had everything down except the sneer and the psychotic personality."

Lindsey eased himself around his over-protective vampire. "Looks like you were working on developing that second part."

He nodded towards the sugar-coated carnage.

"Hey, they tried to turn candy against me. They had to die. But enough about my latest Near Death Experience. What are you two doing here?"

Angel stopped staring slightly south of Xander's leather clad waist long enough to answer. "Spike called me for help."

"Whoa." Xander's jaw dropped. "*Spike* called *you* for *help*?"

"See, that's what I said."

"Oh God; What's wrong?"

"Fear Demons." Lindsey's soft drawl didn't lessen the impact of his words, even if those words resulted in annoyance more than anything else.

"Fear Demons? Again?" Xander's eyes got to mid roll before his brain processed something else the other human had said. "Wait- did you just use the plural of the D word?"

"Afraid so."

"Well, my little escapade suddenly makes more sense." Xander paled. "How many are there?"

"Ummm..." Angel tried to mentally calculate all the major and minor, lesser and not-so-lesser varieties of demon that fed on terror "...We're not sure."

"Oh-Kay." Xander thought things over for a moment, then nodded firmly. "You two go find Spike. Help him."

Angel looked a bit startled. Were the people you were rescuing *supposed* to send you packing to another rescue?

"But Xan... What about you?"

"Me?" Xander calmly hooked his thumbs through his leather belt loops. "I have to go save my potential boyfriend."