"No! No! Foolish large-breasted toddler guarding person! Remove your high-heels *before* descending the darkened, marble staircase; You stabbed the strangely impervious killer in the *eyes*, its eardrums remain undamaged!"

Anya, satisfied with the advice she had meted out, brushed some stray popcorn kernels off her blouse, glared for the umpteenth time at the couple in front of her who kept looking at her with their fingers on their lips, for some reason, and sat back in her seat.

She had decided to take in this "All Nite Frite" fest

(After bailing up the woman behind the ticket counter for forty minutes to inform her that whoever had spelt the sign was probably illiterate and that her ex-boyfriend whom she suspected was now gay and looking for a boyfriend if you happen to have any homosexual friends or family or even bisexual in a pinch had received much help with his own sub-standard reading skills at a late night course at Sunnydale U and if these films weren't as scary as they claimed to be her hard earned money had better be refunded because she wasn't *ever* going to do a stock-take of the lucky rabbit's feet in inventory ever again in this or any lifetime to earn more and yes she was aware the movie was starting and is the human eye supposed to twitch rhythmically at the corners like yours is doing?)

as part of her plan to celebrate her first proper Halloween as an official single type person.

The last time she'd experienced one she'd still been settling into her newly human form. The copious amount of candy she'd ingested had given her something that Xander, with a knowing nod (and strangely jealous gleam in his eye), had told her was a "sugar high".

She'd done things she'd never have even considered without a 50:50 plasma to pop rocks ratio; being nice to the Slayer, dressing in a b... b... bunny outfit, contemplate going steady with Xander.

Anya sighed briefly whilst thinking of her ex boyfriend. Even Oz had drooled over the sight of her Viking in his tuxedo

(the salivating werewolf had claimed to have caught the scent of someone cooking ribs, but she'd known better).

Xander was nice, but clearly *she* hadn't been what he'd been looking for. If she could get brownie points from the PTBs for every time Xander had called her "Deadboy" during their copulations, she'd be Della Reese by now.

So, in the Halloween spirit

//That reminds me- send a greeting card to Michael Myers//

here she was. She'd already sat through THE BLAIR WITCH PROJECT and THE THING, and was now feverishly jotting down notes whilst watching Hideo Nakata's RING.

//A cursed video-tape? Why didn't I think of that? I could've wreaked vengeance against all Video Dating Agency guys who describe themselves as bilingual because they've got a copy of the Klingon Dictionary//

Finishing her memo to D'Hoffryn, Anya sent it to him in a burnt votive urn/popcorn tub (along with a sacrificial offering of Skittles), and sat back to enjoy the movie.

The screen went black.

"Projectionist! You're not earning your money in the prescribed fashion!"

Suddenly, a voice rang out over the PA system. A suspiciously squeaky, tiny-larynx-ed voice.

"Dear Patrons... Our next scheduled movies, THE OMEN TRILOGY, has been postponed after the guy delivering the films was decapitated by a giant billboard of Gregory Peck in a completely explicable, run-of-the mill, totally non-supernaturally related accident. While we're cleaning his blood off the film stock and passing large industrial magnets over the master tape of OMEN 4 whilst sticking its writer full of hat-pins, please enjoy the following triple bill: HARVEY, WATERSHIP DOWN, and NIGHT OF THE LEPUS."

Anya frowned and turned to the -surprisingly little- person in the next seat over.

"Hello, fellow cinema-patron; I am unfamiliar with these films- do you know what they're about?"

The tiny figure in the chair next to hers turned, and regarded her with evil, piggish little eyes

(well, what could be seen of them over its jumbo-mega-supro frozen coke, anyway)

"Be vewwy qwuiet" the Fear Demon said in a high pitched lisp. "They'we awll abowt wabbits..."

"Wa... wabbits?"

Anya knew she'd heard that word before, back when Xander was trying to convince her that Saturday Morning cartoons weren't just for kids anymore

(and to buy the breakfast cereals featured in the ad-breaks, as they always had some really great candies, marshmallows, or candied marshmallows to balance out all the roughage)

A wabbit was a... a...

And, as the opening moments of WATERSHIP DOWN unfolded on the screen, Art Garfunkle's "Bright Eyes" floating out over the audience

(which, oddly enough, now seemed to be just her)

Anya did something not at all uncommon for Halloween Night. Or when listening to an Art Garfunkle song for that matter.

Anya screamed.

When Angel's Plymouth had shot past Kate Lockley's squad car, it had done so so fast that it actually caused a temporal anomaly; Kate's hair and fashion suddenly devolving to some point in the mid-Eighties and becoming too hideous to look upo-

oh right.

Anyway, the blonde detective had taken a moment to pick up her coffee cup out of her lap, where she'd dropped it after the sonic boom and doppler effect-affected yell of terror from Angel's passenger

aaaaaAangel! Slow down and I *swear* I'll let you be on top next tiiii-"//

then gunned the black and white into pursuit, grinning like the Alien Queen after laying a chest-burster in its god-awful hairstylist.

The chase had gone well. She'd thought she'd lost them for a moment, but then realised she could just follow the squeals of brakes, pedestrians, domestic livestock and persons in the passenger side seat alike, and soon had them in her sights. Not literally of course- at least not yet

(it should be noted here that Kate had built a shrine to Charlton Heston in her apartment)

but she was close enough to identify that the person behind the wheel was indeed Angel- no-one else on Earth could maintain structural hair follicle integrity whilst traveling at speeds that would make The Flash's nipples melt.

She had trouble identifying his traveling companion though. She was good at remembering faces, but this guy kept *his* face either tilted up in supplication towards the Heavens, or, whenever another automobile came within three feet, buried in the jackety folds of Angel's chest.

After about twenty minutes, she'd built up a sufficient picture of him to recall he was the Suit who kept hanging around both her and Angel's office whenever trouble was brewing, percolating, or plunger-ing. Clearly, the cute young Suit and Angel were friends

(at this point, Angel had come within a whisper of colliding with a garbage truck, and Lindsey had buried his face in the vampire's *lap*)

-very good friends- but his panicked state was more than enough grounds for her to pursue Angel on grounds of suspected kidnapping. Which would give her grounds to pull him over. Which would give him grounds to mouth her off. Which would give her grounds to fill his evil, lying undead ass with lea.. er, wood.

Kate liked to keep herself grounded.

She had put her various pedals to the various metals, already anticipating the glorious moment when she would be bathed in the exploded ashes of her number one least favourite vampire

(well, okay- number two, after Leslie Nielson in DEAD AND LOVING IT)

And had therefore been oblivious to the large billboard that read:

Until she lost control of her car, crashed into the billboard, and blacked out.

Kate regained consciousness about two hours later, at exactly the same moment as, at various places around town, Xander was (literally) creaming amber-hued saccharine trolls; Angel was finding a parking spot for the Plymouth (not so literally, as he just stopped it in the middle of the street); Lindsey was casing out Xander whilst making a mental note to buy Angel red speedos and leather pants for Chr... Chris... Xmas (c'mon, give him a break- the guy's only been a whitehat for a fortnight, max); Joyce was still dead and not in this story at all; Graham was patiently waiting his cue to re-enter the narrative (soon, my pretty); and Anya was crouching behind her movie seat and calling to a lapin-loathing deity she'd heard about called El-Myyr-Thud.

Kate moaned, swore creatively and sat up, unbuckling her seatbelt and getting out of the squad car to inspect the damage.

The car was totaled. She could only have gotten it more dented, buckled, burnt and destroyed if she'd stood up on her desk in the middle of her squadroom and announced in a loud voice "I'm only twenty-four hours away from retirement from the force, and I haven't been shot at even *once*."

Kate leaned against the trunk, looking around her in the hope that there was a six-foot three, black-coated, hair-gelled target for her frustrations nearby. No such luck.

Instead, coming towards her was a motorcycle cop, in mirror shades.

"License and Registration, please Ma'am."

Kate put up a badge-wielding hand to cut him off. "It's okay, I'm with the force too. I just had a little accident."

"*I'll* say- that's the worst perm I've ever seen on anyone- I'm gonna hafta write ya up for creating a public nuisance, Kate."

He produced a yellowed ticket book and began scribbling.

The blonde detective frowned. //Do I know this guy? and what's *that*?//

She pointed. "You have a... a... thing... on your shoulder"

The cop cocked his head at the tiny, wizened creature, in full highway patrol uniform, perched on his shoulder.

"Oh, that's Estrardar, one of the relatives of the great Lord Gachnar. He's a fear demon."

The cop turned back to her, and removed his helmet.

And his mirrored glasses.

And his eyeballs.

"But we all know *nothing* scares you, right, honey?" He looked up from his writing and turned to the fear demon on his shoulder. "Hey- how do you spell D.O.A?"

Kate backed up in horror. "D... daddy?"

Gasping like a beached fish

(that'd just met its dead father and a wizened little hell troll in cop-drag)

Kate backed away.

"You have the right to scream loudly!" Estrardar called cheerfully, its hideous little face beaming at her from beneath its motorcycle helmet. "And remember... If you cannot afford a horribly repugnant demise, one will be appointed to you."

Perhaps if Kate Lockley had been a nicer, less belligerent, less pushy person, she might have survived to see the end of these Stygian shenanigans. Survived and lived to whine, complain, and blame Angel for the whole thing another day.

Unfortunately though, the word "nice" was not in Detective Lockley's vocabulary.

(Nor were "Meracious", "Engastration", "Decoupage" or "Cacomistle")

And she was not used to backing away from *anything*. Which is why she didn't notice that she'd managed to back herself smack dab onto the middle of the freeway.

A lime green mini van covered in flower decals spun around the corner and straight into the retreating Police Officer. Whilst not going as fast as Angel's Plymouth

(this being impossible without the aid of Dilithium crystals)

the van was traveling with more than enough speed to reduce Kate to her various component parts, along with a bucket or two of really ripe, icky fluids.

The Mystery Machine screeched to a stop and a young man with a blonde dye job even less convincing than Spike's got out.

"Oh my God, I think she's dead!" Freddie Prinze, Jr was aghast. "That's the third this month! Sarah'll tear me a new one!"

Jennifer Love Hewitt walked over and lifted him off his feet by his shirt collar. "Sarah? Who is this Sarah? You don't want me to give you the hook again, do you?"

"No! She's just a friend! Honest!"

"You're lucky." Ryan paused as he climbed down from the passenger side. "She made me *such* a disturbing offer once... 'anywhere you want it' indeed"

Freddie turned, arms waving. "This is *your* fault Phillipe! Every time I give you a ride, we end up turning someone into road kill! The Fisherman, The Golf Pro, The Lacrosse Player, Joshua Jackson..."

"So what's the big?" Phillipe shrugged. "We'll just do what we always do, and take this to our graves."

Freddie and Jennifer sighed. "To our graves. Again."

Christina Ricci came round from the rear of the van. "Nah, I've got a better idea. Disposal of the evidence."

She put her fingers to her mouth and whistled.

"Here boy- time for a Scooby Snack!"

..."Roh Roy! Ritchy Reese Rofficer! Rericious!"

"Oh yeah... Oh *yes*, baby, don't stop... You say... you're the only... gay guy in your hometown? Then how... Oh, God! How on Earth... did you learn how to do that..a..aaaahhoo*YEAH*!"

Parker Abrahms groaned, one hand flying to his cock and cupping himself as he spurted hot semen all over it,

(these sheets had cost more than his first car)

the other serving as a pillow for his chin as he rode his climax out, lips pulled back in an orgasmic rictus that made Jack Nicholson's Joker look like that one gloomy Smurf- clearly the only one in the whole Smurf village who didn't eat the mushroom he lived in.

This was his best Halloween party ever.

Behind and yet flush with him, his boyfriend grunted, circled his hips forward a final time, swore softly and came. Parker's grin widened to levels preluding permanent disfigurement at the feel of crisp belly hair tickling his mid back, a warm cock jumping and spasming deep inside his ass.

He rolled over and swept said boyfriend into a simultaneously sticky and slick embrace, muttering soft endearments that he actually *meant*, for perhaps the first time since he'd fed Jiminy Cricket to Charlotte the Spider.

After Buffy had attempted to plant an oak tree in his hypothalamus, Parker Abrahm's life had gonethrough some interesting changes. 1] He'd said goodbye to his womanizing days, sworn off heterosexuality, and begun his manizing days 2] He'd switched to a special herbicidal shampoo for several months, after acorns had started to sprout from his scalp and squirrels kept trying to harvest him 3] Amnesia had forced him to cut several blurry weeks out of his upcoming one-man show "PARKER YOUR FACE IN MY LAP" and 4] he regularly found himself in Sunnydale U's Palaeontology Department, masturbating over pictures of cavemen.

He didn't really recall the explanation for 4], but was having much too much fun enjoying 1] to care. Besides, now that he had an actual boyfriend, the Australopithecus just didn't seem as rugged any more.

Jack smiled and pulled out of him, soothing the loss of intimate contact with a quick nuzzle to Parker's jaw.

"Now *that*" Jack grinned. "Was fan-fucking-tastic, Park. Any better and I'd have to borrow my sister's Thorazine."

Parker pillowed his head on Jack's sweaty chest. "Yeah, and you'd have to wrestle them off her first. Hey- remember the time she thought I was that old boyfriend of yours? what was his name... Nathan?"

"-Ethan. And I can't say I blame her. You do look a lot like him, Park, except that *you've* obviously discovered the aesthetic effects of the common hairbrush, and *he* never kissed me back."

Parker kissed a handy nipple. "Well, at least she had a reason. Between Andie's gut punch and Buffy going banzai with bonsai, I was beginning to think I was under some spell to attract unwanted attention from the objects of my desires."

"No, that would be Xander -hey, you look kinda like him, too!"

Parker pulled himself up Jack's body until they were face to face. "You given any more thought to moving up here with me, yet?"

Jack stroked Parker's hair. "Yeah. I just dunno, Park. I mean, my town's pretty dull, but at least it's only had three deaths in five years. Sunnydale's got a monopoly on mortality that makes Elm Street look like a great place to raise kids! It makes Camp Crystal Lake look like an actual summer camp!"

Parker felt warm inside. He'd never felt this way before without first having eaten a dodgy kebab. "You... You're worried about me?"

"... How could I not be?! The moment I tied up the boat in Sunnydale Harbour, some great scaly fish-thing jumped aboard and ate the mainsail! Pacey's gonna kill me! He worked on refurbishing that boat for an entire seaso- er, year!"

"... Oh, that sounds like it was just one of the old High School swim team. They're pretty harmless, as long as you don't mention Ian Thorpe."

"Oooh-kay... Look, Park; Come home with me. I'm terrified something's gonna eat you, or lay its eggs in your brain, or, or..."

"... Hit me with a stick?"

"Yes! Or hit you with a stick! Come move in with *me*. Capeside's pretty dull, but the only thing you have to worry about is Joey's poetry giving you hypoglycaemia."

Parker looked at his lover. "I dunno, Jack, I-"

Suddennly, the front door was wrenched off its hinges. Into the room stepped a naked blond man, accompanied by a tiny, wizened leathery imp-thing that looked like a Mogwai with dysentery.

A security guard from downstairs attempted to grab the man, but he turned and, using his amazingly large, prominent forehead, beat the guard to death.

"Abrahms!" the man roared. "How dare you steal my Jackers?! One more homoerotic house painting together, and he would've been eating me out of my cover-alls!"

Jack paled. "Da... Dawson?"

Parker grabbed Jack by the hand and practically dragged him down the fire escape. Naked, the two boys leapt into Jack's convertible.

"Okay, You've convinced me, babe" Parker said "Lead on, McPhee."

Jack was already reversing the car out of the lot and onto the road. He grabbed the gearstick. Parker's low moan reminded him he drove an automatic.

"Oh God, Jack, wait! We're nude! What if a cop stops us!"

Jack smiled. "Don't worry, love. I... know... Pacey's brother. Let's just say that I didn't shoot the sheriff, but I shot all *over* the Deputy..."

Graham Miller was in Hell.

Granted, he'd pretty much expected a Nine Circles zip code and all manner of sulfur-smelling neighbours when the Initiative first posted him to Sunnydale two years ago, but he hadn't been fazed.

Hey- he'd been a Marine. Tracking a blood-crazed Goazarian Destructor through a maze of junked white goods at the Town Dump was *nothing* compared to being forty fathoms underwater in a glorified tin can and sharing a cramped shower room with twenty naked, crew-cutted, bubble-butted studs whilst trying to conceal your erection.

(Thanks to the cover story of a certain not-asking-not-telling commando, many Class Of '94 cadets still believed torpedos came in a foot long, hand-held variety that was painted purple to disguise it as an Atlantic squid).

This situation, however, was Above and Beyond, even for his former Unit.

(The Initiative, not his... um, unit)

There were little h hells and Big H Hells, and this one certainly qualified for the Caps Lock Button.

"...oherty thinks she can just switch shows like that? Puh-LEEZE. I mean, Spelling might hire anyone who just, I dunno, washes his windshield at intersections or gives his life support system another six months of electricity or whatever, but I hear Whedon's got standards, right?"

Graham gradually realised his ears had stopped hurting, meaning that the Teenage Torquemada he'd run into on his way to the Bronze and now just could not shake

(well, he could, *literally*, but then Buffy would pound him, and he'd much rather Xander be the one to pound hi... okay, impressionable child in vicinity, standing down)

had taken a time out on her interrogation to allow him to come up with a suitably impressive counter argument.

"Mmmhmm."

Dawn cocked her head as much as her Halloween costume would allow her to

(Giles being the latest victim, er, subject of her weekly crushes, she'd gone as a Watcher, swiping one of his old leather-elbowed jackets and his only pair of prescription glasses; which meant Giles was currently having many crushes- not to mention crashes, bashes and crunches- of his own at the moment)

and sharpened her pre-pubescent perceptions, analyzing the tone, length, oomph, empathy and, for all Graham knew, the carbon dioxide level of his "Mmmhmm". She judged him wanting, with possible charges of Disinterest pending.

"Y'know, Graham, if you don't want me to walk with you, you can just, like, tell me?"

Graham looked at her.

//Uh-huh. Or I could just bottom for Ben, and yell out "I'm The Key, punish me big-boy" when we come//

He shook his head. "Nah, it's okay, Dawn."

She beamed at him. Brightly. He reminded himself that, though he was no longer in the military per se, desertion would still look bad on his record.

"I mean, I know you're only going to The Bronze to the the whole Y-chromosomey male bondage thing with Xander..."

//dontthinkaboutitdontthinkaboutitdonthoithinkaboutit//

"... But you probably don't want the Slayer's kid sister tagging alohmygosh!"

Graham was instantly combat ready, taser out and armed as he scanned the road they were walking down for anything with more than for legs that wasn't a dog, and if it *was* a dog, that it didn't have horns and breathe fire.

(don't ask)

"What? Where? What?"

�Uh, I see two friends of mine from school. Geez, what, have you been mainlining caffeine or something?� Dawn punctuated that last statement as she punctuated most statements to anyone over the age of twenty. Her eyes rolled up so far in her head that for a moment Graham was slightly worried the teenager was going into convulsions caused by sarcasm overload.

�Oh.� Graham hastily holstered his weapon and tried to smile as Dawn waved her friends over. Unfortunately good will only goes so far, and as the other people of the female, teenage persuasion bounded over, his expression went from a sort of smile to �when was the expiration date on that carton of milk I just drank?�.

�Dawn! Ohmygod!� The dark haired Powerpuff Girl was the first to arrive. �Check you out, you look so... scratchy.�

�I�m a librarian.� Dawn said proudly.

�Oh. Um... yeah.� The Britney Spears wannabe gave Graham a leer. �And, who�s your friend? And, why does he suddenly look like he�s gonna barf?�

The youngest Slayerette glanced at Graham and decided to take pity on the former soldier to save him from any more embarrassment-

�Oh, that�s Graham. I think he had some bad enchiladas or something. We should probably go before he... you know... BLAAAAHHHRRGGG.� Dawn made a retching noise which caused Graham to heave a mixed sigh of relief and irritation (but mostly relief), as the teens backed away from him.

The fake Britney checked her imaginary watch. �We have to be, like, someplace else now. Are you coming, Dawn, or do you have sawdust duty?�

From the shadows, several tiny, parboiled looking figures watched the exchange, their hands just itching to clasp in little fear demon glee.

�We are going to have so much fun with those three.� A voice rasped.

�Terrorizing teenagers. It�s so hip, so retro, so-�

�Easy.� A third demon chortled. �I can�t remember why we ever-�

�Stop!� A new voice called out.

The assembled demons turned and peered through the sudden puff of sulfur to look at the newcomer in their midst.

�Oh, now I remember.�

�I am Secenskor, from the Standards and Practices branch of the Fear demon family, and I must protest your current plans for under the acceptable age bloodletting. You simply cannot kill those three teenagers.� The demon punctuated his statement by pushing his heavy glasses up his pug nose (with all the mucus he excreted, you�d think the darn things would stay where he put them).

�And why not?!� The first demon demanded.

Secenskor sighed. �Because it�s against the rules of modern horror conduct and you would be severely reprimanded if you did.� From somewhere among it�s many folds of skin it produced a large volume entitled �First Amendment, What First Amendment?�. �According to this, anyone under the age of sixteen and/or a virgin may not be burned, stabbed, shot, hung, cut, sliced, diced, beaten, kicked, whipped, drowned, frozen, blown up, buried alive, tripped, pushed, given a paper cut-

�Okay, okay, we get it!� The first demon sneered. �And what if we do it anyway?�

�Have you ever heard of the Kangressscoinl Enkry?�

A collective gasp went through the tiny assemblage.

�We�ll be good, well, relatively speaking.� said the third demon.

�Definitely don�t want them poking their noses in.� the second demon nodded.

�Fine!� The first demon huffed. �We�ll let the young ones go. But, what about *him*?�

Secenskor once again adjusted his glasses. �Hmmm. Graham Miller. Well, he�s most certainly over the age of sixteen. And, his virginity is about as nonexistent as Christmas parties at Wolfram and Hart. I�m not seeing any real problem with terrorizing him down to his very soul and then sucking his liver out through a straw.�

�Yay!!!!�

Graham walked his sublime buns through the Bronze front door ten minutes before the time he and Xander had agreed upon.

Though it was, these days, mostly buried under enough tailored designer labels to immobilize Steven Segal, Graham's Inner Marine still demanded that he check out the lay of the land, whether for a fight-to-the-death with a bile-spurting Kandarian Deadite, or a dinner-to-the-dessert with a Sunnydalean Xander, who hopefully didn't spurt anything.

Well, within reason.

Given that he was still not sure about his new friend's sexual orientation

(the guy sent more mixed signals than Willow's cell phone,"Moloch Junior")

Graham had opted to wear his old Initiative-issue sweater. That way, if Xander didn't consider tonight a date, Graham would look pared-down and deadly; and if Xander *did* consider tonight a date, Graham would look, well...pared-down and deadly.

Graham was nothing if not an optimist. Albeit a quiet one.

As soon as he walked into the club proper, though, Graham's Inner Marine went from "R&R" to "ten-HUT!" in seconds.

Something was..off. He'd been expecting colored gel lights, smoke machines and mirror balls- the whole Sigfried and Roy schtick, only with more dancing and less tigers- and a crowd of live band-addled teens and twenty somethings trying to make bleeding from the ears look like a come on.

Instead, there was darkness and silence. The dozen or so people here sat quietly at their tables, and the stage featured not a live band but a....

Graham swallowed noisily. His Inner Marine had apparently thrown itself on his Inner Depth Charge.

No...it couldn't be...Xander was his friend; he would have *warned* Graham if the Bronze had a...Karaoke bar.

//...unless...// Graham started mentally reviewing his Supernatural Ecology classes for mention of HSTs with beautiful chocolate eyes, and radiant smiles you could get a tan from.

Cautiously, Graham moved forward. Normally the presence of anything remotely public address system-related made the stoic commando run screaming -stoically- from the room

(a royally drunk Riley Finn warbling "Tie a Yellow Ribbon" is enough to scar *anyone* for life)

but he was meeting Xander in a few minutes, and the thought of that sweetly bashful grin was enough to keep his fight-or-flight response, if not his hormones, in check for the mome-

//What the corn-shuck?//

(Okay- a certain Iowan was *definitely* getting his own apartment as soon as possible)

At first glance, he'd thought the karaoke bar was not being used. Now, closer, he saw that the machines were indeed turned on, and that someone had set a microphone up in the middle of the stage.

The mic-stand seemed to be broken though, as it was only about three inches off the floo-

Uh oh.

There was a tiny little horned thing staring right at him. It gave him a wink and an impish

(literally)

smile. He didn't know which was scarier- the seductive wink, or the really low cut, black satin cocktail dress that took his eyes all manner of places they really would have been much happier not going. When the microscopic demoness began warbling in a squeaky falsetto that brought to mind Celine Dion on a planet with an all-helium atmosphere, he had his answer.

"I am the Captain...and this is my Shrine; Lord of the Manor... See what I leave behind; Rivers in flames; cities on fire..."

It broke off and glanced at him, twinkling its ludicrously long- and by the looks of it, lethally sharp- false eyelashes at him coquettishly.

"Hello, Sailor" it breathed. "The name's Barbrar. One-time consort to the mighty Gachnar." It waved a hand at the microphone. "Care to give it a whirl?"

Graham's blue eyes were almost swallowed up by the panicked expansion of his pupils, and he went so white that his former unit would have mistaken him for a Gentleman and tasered him.

"Umm...not right now..." Graham feigned a wheeze. "Laryngitis..." He began surreptitiously backing away,still faux-coughing like he'd just sampled some of Riley's home-style deviled corn patties and looking out of the corners of his eyes for escape routes. Didn't city ordinances demand that all clubs had to have at least three emergency exits in event of fire, plague, or electronically-backed cover songs?

"I thought this might scare you. I'm a Fear Demon, you see. I know the foulest terrors of your darkest secret heart."

"That's not possible; I've never discussed my fears with anyo-"

"-Buffy Summers wearing only two hot-water bottles and a packet of marshmallows and mistaking your bed for Riley's."

"...Eeep"

Graham bolted like the mother...er, father...of all stallions.

He'd only succeeded in running the length of two Principal Snyders stretched end to end when he was grabbed from behind. And not in a good way.

Turning as much as he could, he was mortified to discover he was locked in the embrace of Forrest Gates.

(not as literally mortified as Forrest, but you get the picture)

His extremely dead friend was wearing a plum coloured tuxedo glittering with sequins. Purple sequins. He looked like the official greeter at Hell's Casino.

"And where d'ya think you're going? We're seeing your tonsils tonight, Marine- one way or the other..."

Gehenna's door-bitch brought up a wickedly sharp, yellow pincer and clacked it for emphasis.

Graham sighed. "I don't suppose the other way involves tongue-kissing Parker Abrahms?"

Forrest's eyes flashed in synch with the sequins on his jacket. "Just sing, Marine. Sing a song."

"Should I make it simple to last the whole night lo-okay okay, quit shoving! Geez, couldn't Adam've spliced you with an HST that had a sense of humor?"

Graham was frog-marched back to Barbrar. The tiny demoness had taken advantage of the break to raise the mic stand to Graham's height

(God only knows how she'd done it)

and was now sitting on the edge of the stage swinging her legs into space. She looked up as he approached.

"Ah, excellent. Well, Graham, are you ready to face your profoundest terrors?"

"Hey- I resent the fact that just because I'm not some sort of blathering chatterbox you automatically assume my greatest fears revolve around vocalizing to an audience."

"The fact that you sweat like Balthazaar's aerobics instructor whenever you so much as look at the stage is kind of a giveaway. Now...sing!"

The demoness gestured grandly at the karaoke set-up. Graham reluctantly stood in front of it, looked uncomfortably out into the audience

//Oh God//

which has swollen from twelve to twelve *million*, packed so tight you'd need a shoehorn to start a wave going.

and took a deep breath:

"No! No No No No No!" Barbrar was fuming. "That song is *so* last year. Do something else. Something current. Something *painful*".

Her eyes glittered as she read through the song book "Ahh...perfect" and pressed a button.

Graham paled paler than he thought it was possible to pale when he heard the Fear Demoness' choice: Gwyneth Paltrow and Huey Lewis' CRUISING.

"Look...couldn't you just kill me? You can use your claws, your teeth, the mike-stand... anything. I don't mind, honest!"

"Sing!"

"Umm... I'll... I'll do AMERICAN PIE! It goes for nine minutes... I'll be a ruin!"

"No. *Sing*! I'm afraid we don't have a back-up vocalist, so you'll have to sing both parts yourself. It'll be more tortuous that way."

Barbrar watched in satisfaction as all hope and life went out of the Marine's eyes. He clutched at the microphone and warbled despairingly

"...Baby let's cruise..."

Suddenly, an answering baritone- warm,rich and confident- came echoing back from the dimly lit audience area.

"...Away from heeeere..."

Graham's eyes were lit by a faint spark of hope as he forced out:

"Don't be confused..."

Barbrar scowled and peered piggishly at the mosh pit as once again the voice rang out.

"...The way is cleeeeeeear..."

Graham's entire body shuddered with relief, and a nice big UNICEF care package of lust, at the sight of his knight in shining armor

(well, more of a Knight-in-Usually-Blindingly-Fluorescent -Abercrombie-and-Fitch, really, but wait til you see the size of his lance)

-Xander LaVelle Harris, singing his ever lovin' heart out, a huge smile on his beautiful face as he vaulted from the audience onto the stage and put one arm around the microphone, bending it towards him, the other arm firmly embracing Graham:

"...And if you want it you got it forever, this is not a one-night stand, ooh baby..."

-Snarling, the Forrest-Demon charged the pair. Graham lashed out with a perfectly timed kick to the solar plexus, and the hybrid sailed out into the audience, where it was borne away on a tide of hands in an impromptu and unwilling display of crowd surfing, its voice receding into the far distance.

("Put me down, dammit-put me down! I don't *have* any backstage passes! No, I do *not know Michael Stipe- hey! Don't touch me there!...")

Barbrar was shaking in rage. A moment later, however, the tiny demoness was shaking in mortal

(well, immortal)

terror as Xander released Graham from his reassuring hug long enough to pick up one of the speakers and raise it high over his head.

"*No-one* turns my date into Gwyneth Paltrow..."

and bring it down on Barbrar's head again and again, until you couldn't tell her woofer from her tweeter.

Graham was searching Xander's face. "Date? Xan, does this mean you want to go out with mmmmph..."

Graham's unusually verbose mouth was cut off midstream by Xander's own, their lips and tongues meeting and getting to know each other.

After a small eternity of savouring one another, the boys broke off, panting heavily.

Graham was dazed. "I suppose...we should go..."

Xander's eyes were laughing. "Are you sure? "Cause I do a pretty mean BETTE DAVIS EYES too, ya know."

Graham attempted to look stern, but the smile and hand on Xander's hip belied the picture.

"Don't make me pull rank on you, civilian..."

After saving Graham from the sticky pulp lining the grooves of the DUETS soundtrack CD that used to be Fear Demoness Barbrar, Xander grabbed a beautiful commando forearm and lead him away from the Bronze, into an alleyway he judged safe enough

(after shaking his booty at three vamps who, convinced anyone who looked that bad -*good* bad- in leather had to be an Ancient, fled in screaming terror, shouting compliments about his buns over their shoulders in appropriately obsequious fashion)

to rest in.

Graham, however, judged the alleyway still too close to the karaoke machine's ground zero for comfort- especially the comfort he hoped to be getting from his new friend. No *way* was he getting naked within earshot of a supernaturally influenced song machine- it might start up again just as he and Xander were getting hot and heavy

(not to mention slick and salty)

and then he'd forever associate naked, erect and wanton Xander Harris with the Macarena.

After Graham had grabbed *Xander's* forearm and lead him several kilometres away, he decided they'd gotten far enough out of range to let down a] his guard and b] Xander's more intimate garments.

The stoic commando felt equal waves of desire and despair wash over him as he pulled on Xander's belt and noticed, finally, the leather pants, jumping to the same conclusion Angel had earlier, albeit being more open about the whole long, tracking leer first.

"Oh God, Xan- I'm sorry; I should have protected you..."

Xander was puzzled //Protected? Hey, I stopped by the drugstore on the way here// and very turned on by Graham's fingers in his belt loops. His hips pumped forward once or twice, entirely outside of his control.

//*Down*, leather pants! Sheesh- how Angel has avoided getting hip replacements over the years is beyond me//

Graham jumped back from the oh so tempting bulge at the creature's groin, and fumbled in his own pants for-no, not that, dammit, where's the-aha- crucifix.

"Get behind me, Hellspawn!"

Xander grinned. "Sir, Yes Sir!" and moved to spin Graham around facing the wall. Graham made a small, breathy kitten yelp and backed off again. Eventually.

"No! No! I mean, um, begone!"

//that sounded suitably old fashioned and Giles-esque, right?//

"I won't stake you this time, but if I see you again I won't be held responsible for my actions!"

Xander's jaw dropped at the same time the penny did. "Oh! Oh no!"

"Oh yes- now 'git!"

"No, no Graham- I'm still me- I'm Xander- this is my Halloween outfit..."

Graham refused to let the hope he felt show in his eyes. "Really?"

Xander stepped closer. "Really."

"Oh Xan, thank God, I- hang on... This is just like Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf."

".... Is this a roundabout way of you asking to see my basket of goodies?"

Graham wanted to believe it was Xan, he really did, but.... "If you're him, prove it."

Xander smiled. "Piece of cake." He bared his neck. "Feel my pulse."

A beat later. Several beats, actually. Lovely, thrumming, mammal-ey heart-beats...

"Oh, Xan, thank God..." Graham melted into the youth's arms.

Xander grinned around an armful of apologetic hunk. "Y'know, Gray, I have a pulse in my neck, my thumb and my wrist. Technically, you didn't have to go straight for the *femoral* pulse..."

Graham grinned, and stepped back. "So- leather pants eh?"

"Hot off a ranch near you. So, do you like them?"

All of a sudden, it hit. Graham realised this was Xander. Xander Harris. Xander Harris, guy-sex-god, in *leather pants*.

//Oh. My. God. There are calves on his calves//

"...Graham?"

//How did he squeeze those wonderful buns into there? And is there room for me?//

"...*Graham*?"

"Huh? Oh, sorry Xan... Der. Xander. Huh- er, What?"

A good natured sigh. "Do you like my Halloween costume?" Xander did a model-y pirouette to show it off.

Graham's mouth dried. //Believe me Xan, I'd *never* hate you because you're beautiful...//

"Yeah, it's terrific. Very..."

"-FRIGHT NIGHT?"

"-HAPPY DAYS."

"Bite your tongue! the day I have an office in a bathroom is the day Anya takes the veil with the Daughters of Charity."

Graham grinned. "You look seriously great, Xander."

"Cool. So what are you wearing?"

Graham spread his arms out, indicating his current wardrobe. Whilst it was breath-taking, it was *not* Halloween attire, and its stunning status had more to do with the man who was contained within than the clothing itself. "This".

"Uh-huh. If I were to say that you're going to the Halloween party as an Abercrombie and Fitch cover-boy, this would be the part where you beat me with a phone book, right?"

"Xander! You're my friend! ...I'd use the A & F catalogue."

"Hey! Those things run at over 200 pages! Er... not that I subscribe. And if I did, it would simply be to buy the clothes."

"Yes... I've noticed you're something of a fashion plate."

"Hey- I didn't say I *wore* them. I... um ... keep Deadboy in Greatcoats."

"-Xander."

"Say, where do you think that term came from, anyway? 'Greatcoat' I mean I know Deadboy *does* look cool in them, but do you think they've got "Goodcoats" and "AverageCoats" and "Notinamillionyearsco-"

"Xan. Stop moving your lips around so much so I can kiss them, Okay?"