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Schem Of Generation Between melting and freezing The soul's sap quivers…. Not in the scheme of generation. Where is the summer, the unimaginable Zero summer? They come home to bright polish and dusted
surfaces, to California air and the taint of fumes that are somehow
worse than the smell of the souk. Illyria shakes off her shell's appearance
as a wet cat does water, and almost hisses, teeth slightly bared, before
slumping, drained and weary, against Xander. "Hate planes," she mumbles.
"Blow them up?" "All of them," Xander assures
her, pressing a kiss to her forehead as she leans into him. "Just
as soon as we steal the government's stash of C4." "Thank you." Illyria yawns,
triangular and toothy and unselfconscious, clings for a moment with
her eyes tight shut, and is herself again. "Oh, Dawn dusted. Dawn
put the shutters down. I think I want to leave you and steal her away,
beloved." "Yeah?" Xander snorts. Illyria
is not one to promote insecurities, even in her moments of humour. "Get
her to rub your really stinky feet and see how she feels about that
one." He flops down on the sofa, taking Illyria with him, who simply
rolls her eyes and kicks off her sneakers, waving her feet at Spike,
who gags theatrically. "Aspirin," Wes mumbles, and
heads for the kitchen, yawning hot, stale air. "Open a window,
someone - Xander, if you open it on the east side, even for a joke,
I'll hex you with boils." "Aw, dad…" "Can it." Xander sticks his tongue out at the doorway,
just as Wesley re-emerges, and receives the traditional crossed eyes
and thumb-wave from nose in return. "Mr Pak stocked the cupboards,"
he says wryly, and tries to ignore the 'no-really-we're-not-interested Xander jumps on the jar of peaches with
a small cry of glee, wrapping them in chorizo slices and mumbling his
approval. Spike mixes the O-pos with brandy, humming
under his breath with contentment. Wesley and Illyria dive for the freezer,
and share lemon vodka straight from the bottle, crunching fragile pieces
of ice and looking blissful as their headaches evaporate. Dawn comes in, looking oddly nervous,
and while she hugs everyone, she is skittish, tense. "Wes, I need to talk to you,"
she says quietly, when the holiday talk has disintegrated and become
a bicker-fest of order of importance of events. He smiles down at her, one of the few
that can, now that she is almost six foot in heels. "Dawn, the garden will - " "No. I didn't do anything."
Her fingers wind between Wes's, thin and anxious. "Wes…Angel
went to Wolfram and Hart." And the Cairo peace shatters, falls,
splinters into fragments of blue and gold on the tiled floor, beautiful
and wrecked amidst iced vodka and the scent of lemon, dropping from
Illyria's hands like sand, mixing with Dawn's harsh-salt tears as they
soak into Wesley's shirt. It is the scent of loss. * |