GOLDILOCKS AND BLONDIE BEAR MEET BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

OR

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

(complete with Ass)

Feedback : Pretty please, whatever you thought of it. It will feed my muse for the next story – honestly. Send it to thelibrarian2003@yahoo.com
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine. If they were, I’d look after them better. No money will ever be made from this fic.
Distribution: Dark Star, in any of her incarnations, if she wants it; The Angel Texts; The Angel Elders Mansion
You want it? Really? Gosh. Just tell me where it’s going please.
Spoilers: Takes place during ‘Orpheus’ in season 4 of ‘Angel’. Now, there is a timing problem, because Spike has been to visit the demon, as at the end of season 6 of ‘BtVS’. Let’s pretend they happened at the same time, because otherwise you won’t have this story? OK? Who’s queen?
Rating: If you’re old enough to watch the programmes, you’re old enough to read this. If you detect some… innuendos… in certain phrases, that’s just your mind, OK?
Content: B/A et al. You’ll have to read it to see what I mean.
Summary: It’s about soul magic.

A response to Dark Star’s challenge at the Blood Roses forum.

Requirements:

Theme of ‘Summer’
‘Sunny Day’



GOLDILOCKS AND BLONDIE BEAR MEET BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

OR

A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

(Complete with Ass)

I’m the evil twin, right? So how come I get landed with *this* gig? Not with me? I’m not surprised. I suppose I had better start at the beginning, just like all the best fairy tales do. It’s one of those stories that’s set on a sunny summer’s day, when you don’t get the long hours of darkness in which to worry about the beasties under the bed, or the nightmares in the closet. The sky is blue, the breeze is balmy, and the vampires are getting really active, because the ambient temperature warms their blood to normal body heat. Got the picture? Of course, sometimes it just fries their brains. This may be one of those times.

Once upon a time…

Oh, the hell with this. Just listen, right?

I’m chained and locked in a cage – as if *that’s* going to hold me. Willow is here, whipping up a little spell, and boy, does that crinkle your skin. She’s in the lobby, and I’m in the cage in the basement, but they’ve got the door open, and I know everything that’s going on. I can’t do anything about it. I’ve fed on drugged slayer’s blood and I’m way out of it, and I swear, if I ever get out of this, there are some people who are going to regret what’s happening now for a very, very long time.

Do you know what, though? As I’m thinking that I’m going to need all the help I can get to keep body and demon together, so to speak, it seems that the Lords of Hell have stopped wanking around and actually have their eye on this patch of reality for a change, because I can hear Willow get to the climax of that *goddamned* spell when the Hyperion doors bang open and a breathless, foolish *wonderful* voice says, “Angel? Cordelia? Anybody here?” He says it just as she finishes, and that damned streak of red light comes whooshing into the basement. As he speaks, it does a right-angled turn and whooshes off up through the ceiling. Saved by the bell. Or the nerd. It’s David Nabbitt. I bet he’s got his purple cloak on. For the favour he’s done me, I’ll let him keep it.

Never do magic in a public place, children. Someone is *always* going to come along and screw it up. Here endeth the first lesson.

I lie there waiting for screams and curses, but there’s nothing. Seems like it’s good riddance to bad rubbish so far as the Soul is concerned. The Fang Gang come warily down the steps, and all I need to do is turn a brown-eyed soulful gaze on them and they fall for it, hook, line and sinker. I pile it on a bit, though.

“It’s me. It’s really me,” I whisper. You’ll notice I don’t say *which* me. There’s a great deal of rejoicing and slaps on the back, and everyone is congratulating the red-haired witch for a job well done. Thankfully, she can’t stay. It seems the Slayer and her band have some biggish problems in the old ‘dale. So, off she goes, and as soon as I’m certain she’s out of earshot, I swing into action. Before you can say ‘toot sweet’, they’re all in the cage. I’m not. I thought about killing them, but I’m not hungry at the moment, and it’s nice to have a handy larder. Besides, if the Soul can look down on what’s happening to his sidekicks, he’s going to have a heart attack. That gives me a nice warm glow.

When I say ‘all in the cage’, I don’t mean Cordelia.

Now, you all know by now that Cordy is the current wicked witch? She’s gone bad, bad, bad and she is going to be so much fun. She wasn’t with the rest – she’s sulking up in her room, with a crossbow wound in her thigh. Look, I could have put it somewhere else, couldn’t I? But as I said, she’s going to be fun. I’m just turning to walk away from the cage and from their shocked expressions, when the scream comes. It’s a sort of double scream.

You know what’s happened, don’t you? Nabbitt interrupted the spell, and gave the soul a new target. It’s in her. Cordelia. Knocked her out cold, and she’s just come round. Talk about laugh. I haven’t heard anything so funny in years.

When I get up to her room, she’s having multiple personality disorder, and hearing voices. They’re squabbling over who gets to do the talking, and how much elbow room they’ve got, like two siblings sharing a very narrow bed. I have to sit down again and laugh. There’s double-edged shock and outrage as I pick her/him up and lug them down to the cage, where I introduce my larder to their new companion(s).

Corgel. That’s the name. Well, they both use product, don’t they? Have you *seen* the hairstyles? Really!

It’s as I stand admiring my catch that an odd thought occurs to me. Now, let me make this plain. I want the Soul to be consigned to the deepest, darkest Hell dimension. I’d quite like to pick that very special Hell myself, and watch what happens. I’d like one with some particularly… strapping… demons that are really going to show him the meaning of pain. Oh, and then move on to the meaning of agony. The Soul has, after all, turned my unlife into the foulest imaginable torture for a century. And I want that for him, for ever and ever, amen.

But Cordelia? Stuffing him into Cordelia? That definitely could be seen as cruel and unusual punishment in the extreme. Even I have my limits. Would you want to spend eternity in Cordy’s brain? Have her yakking in your ear all the time? And let’s face it, neither of them have any dress sense, although they think they have. It’s like Beauty and the Beast, and I’ll leave you to think extremely carefully about which one’s which.

The thing is, he’s mine. He was part of this body that I inhabit, and that makes him mine. I may (and do) hate him with every fibre of my unbeing. I may (and do) wish on him the entire range of torments in every available Hell. But he’s mine, and even I can’t leave him there. I don’t want him back, ever, but I’ve made my mind up to find a more fitting end for him.

My first port of call is Wesley’s address book. What with Wesley being such an anal-retentive, it’s all nicely cross-referenced, and there’s an extra set of pages under ‘W’ marked ‘Witches and Warlocks’. Let’s start there. I’m settling down to make a few phone calls, when the door bangs open again, and in walk the last two people I expected to see here. The Slayer and my no-brain offspring. Buffy and Spike. Goldilocks and Blondie Bear.

I’m going to have to summarise the story for you. There was, after all, much misunderstanding to start with because they think I’m Angel, and then much cursing and swearing and sobbing as the story unfolds.

My *childe* has been banging the Slayer. This simply will not do. It might have seemed as if I wanted to kill her, years ago, but that was just foreplay. I want her whole and undamaged by anyone but me. I want to have fun with her. I didn’t need him to tell me what he’s been up to with her, though, because I can smell him all over her, and we will definitely be dealing with that transgression once we’ve dealt with the more immediate problem.

Getting the story out of him is like pulling teeth. Hen’s teeth at that. And there are times when we have to move out of earshot of the sobbing Slayer. He’s been away on a trip. The imbecile has been to get a demon’s gift. Hasn’t he learned yet that a gift from a demon is a very tricky thing indeed? Well, would you want any gift that I could offer? Really? Just step on over here, then…

Never trust a demon. Here endeth the second lesson.

He tells me he went to get a soul. He’s lying, and he knows it. He also knows that I know it. He doesn’t want to lose face in front of the Slayer though – and let’s not forget that this is still *my* woman that we are talking about, even if she is slightly soggy at the moment. What he asked the demon for was this: ‘Make me what I was. So Buffy can get what she deserves.’

Now, you’re bright enough to understand. What he wanted was the chip out of his head, but he seems to have forgotten that you have to be extremely *specific* in any deals with a demon. I don’t care what he says now – Spike has always been about Spike, and no one else. It suits him now to lie about his motives, because that might get him in good with *my woman*, but he really doesn’t want that pesky thing back. Spike has never been good in the intellect department, either, so he got it wrong and everything else is post hoc rationalisation. The thing is, he got it wronger than wrong though, and it’s the next part that has me rolling in the aisles for the second time today.

He’s kneeling there, he says, thinking thoughts of what he’s going to do to little Buff and the human population of Sunnydale when he gets back – well, he doesn’t quite phrase it like that: that’s just my free translation. The demon is all glowy green eyes in the dark – just how theatrical would you want it to be? – and it reaches out its hand to touch him. Just as it does so, a *spider* - I mean, this is a supposedly big, bad vamp, and an itsy-bitsy spider – runs up his leg. He whips round and yells, ‘Geroff,’ and the demon’s mojo does exactly that. This beam of fiery orange light shoots out of the cave and up and away. The demon gives him a very strange look, he says, and shrugs its shoulders before disappearing into the depths of its cave. Just one word drifts back behind it.

“Sorry…”

When he gets back to the old ‘dale, he finds out exactly what it’s sorry for. Its own special interpretation of his request has resulted in his soul returning. But he’s interrupted the spell and guess what? The soul has come back to the Slayer, because he was thinking of what he was going to do to her. *He* is in *my* woman. Now, whichever way you swing it, this is the outside of enough. My imbecile son’s soul is *not* staying in my woman. Especially since it makes her all sorrowful about all the things its original owner has been up to for the last hundred odd years. What? I don’t know how it knows – it just does, right? So, they’ve come here, to get good old Angel to help. I know Spike doesn’t want the soul back, despite what he says – he just wants it out of her. So do I, so I’m going to do something about this.

OK. I’ve got Corgel in the cage and Spuffy in the lobby. And I can’t stop laughing. I suspect it’s this that gives me away. Serious, broody Angel would never laugh at this predicament. My cover’s blown. They may be two to one, but just now they aren’t exactly in tiptop shape, and it doesn’t take me that long to get them in the cage with all the rest.

Then it’s back to Wesley’s address book. One of the witches agrees to come and fix the problem.

Now, you will appreciate that soul magic is tricky stuff – Corgel and Spuffy are living proof of this little fact. I need to know that this witch can do the biz. I have my doubts as soon as she arrives. She’s a dumpy little British thing dressed entirely in black, and she’s come complete with a black pointy hat. Her ‘witching hat’, she calls it. Does that inspire confidence? I don’t think so, especially since there are all sorts of summery wild flowers braided around the brim. I don’t want to eat her just yet, though, because no one else in the book was prepared to have a go. I don’t want to finish up with the Soul rebounding into me, as if it were on elastic, either. And I definitely don’t want there to be any chance at all that she sucks *me* right out of this body. I ask her for a demonstration.

She thinks for a moment, chewing on the end of her wand. Yes, she’s got a wand. I really should have known better, but at least it doesn’t have a little star on the end, or make a sparkly whooshing noise. She tells me what she’s going to do, as a demonstration of the strength of her magical abilities. She’s going to turn everyone in the room into a chicken, and then back again. Will this satisfy me? The thought is *very* appealing, but, as she starts to chant, on a lucky impulse, I take a few steps backwards, out of the room. I’m not all that fond of chickens – don’t know why. This is lucky because, as she says the Latin words that roughly translate as ‘Everyone in this room will be a chicken,’ there’s a lot of clucking and squawking, and a single word.

The dumpy black chicken says, “Bugger”. It’s the one in the corner struggling to get out from under a black, pointy witch’s hat with flowers round the brim. The other chickens have toddled out from between the bars of the cage and are now trying to eat those self-same flowers. They are showing an unhealthy interest in me, too. Nasty, clucky, beaky things. Eventually I manage to corral them all but it takes all day to sort that mess out, and even then only because the spell actually wears off. I wait until everyone’s human again before I eat her. Who wants a soul spell that’ll wear off at the end of the day? I go back to Wesley’s address book. Someone in there points me in the direction of a wizard about 30 miles out of town. He won’t come here, so we have to go to him.

We’re going to need a compromise here.

Eventually, we all agree that, if we’re to sort this mess out, we need to trust each other. They won’t stake me, I won’t eat them. Well, not just yet. Corgel, Spuffy, Spike, Wesley, Gunn and me are going to look this wizard up. We’ll offer him money to do the job right. If that doesn’t work, we’ll offer him money with menaces.

We all scrunch into the car, and follow the yellow brick road. On this balmy summer’s evening, I can think of much better things to do, with this big old tank of a car that the Soul favoured, and my woman close by, even though she seems to have the waterworks permanently turned on. The sooner I get this sorted, the sooner I can get onto those things.

The air outside might be balmy, but the air in this wretched car is at boiling point. Buff is sobbing, Corgel are arguing again AND he feels he should be driving. You can tell who’s talking, even without the words. She’s got that whiny, bitchy voice, and he’s gone all schoolboy. Wes, Gunn and Spike are maintaining a frosty silence in the back. This is hell on wheels.

We get there before I’m pushed into breaking the truce and eating the lot of them.

The wizard is in extreme old age, and as thin as a rail. Frankly, I think he’s a bit gaga. He says he can do it, though, and I have more confidence in him than in the witch. He doesn’t need a hat and a wand, for starters, just the rather threadbare and extremely gaudy robes: thin purple and green velvet, embroidered with sequins that might once have been silver.

He needs a few minutes preparation time, and dawn is now fingering the horizon in shades of pink and red. He has a basement, which we are all going to retire to, so that some of us don’t become burnt offerings. The ‘gel’ and ‘Sp’ parts of our unholy duos have a request, though. They haven’t walked in the sun for rather a long time. They’d like to do it now. It’s a wonderful morning they say. It’s going to be a terrific sunny day, and they don’t want to waste this chance. At least, that’s what ‘gel’ and ‘Sp’ say. ‘Cor’ and ‘uffy’ are less enthusiastic and much inclined to sulk at having their bodies used like this. ‘Uffy’ thinks that she has better things to brood about, and ‘Cor’ doesn’t like the look of the outside – she says she isn’t dressed for it. My temper ratchets up a notch, and at a flash of fang, ‘Cor’ and ‘uffy’ scuttle off, taking their unholy partners with them.

My last sight of them, before retiring to the nice dark basement, is the two of them out in the paddock with the little brown donkey that has owner’s rights and a very loud bray. ‘gel’ is trying to make eyes at ‘uffy’, while ‘Cor’ and ‘Sp’ are objecting with the loudest possible ‘eeuuuww’ noises. The donkey is joining in, but I don’t know whose side he’s on. Honestly, it’s worse than children.

Eventually, they come and join us, and the wizard starts the spell. His gestures encompass all four of Corgel and Spuffy, he sounds out the litany in a strong, clear voice, gathers himself for freeing both unwanted spirits, and then disaster strikes. At the critical moment his eyes bulge, he clutches his chest and damn me if he doesn’t drop dead on the spot. I can hear what’s happened. It’s a massive heart attack. That isn’t quite all, though. The mojo is in action and a beam of reddish-orange light strikes out from both our duos, heading in the direction in which the wizard’s rigid and extremely dead index finger is pointing. Cries of horror from Corgel and Spuffy tell me that something is amiss. An outraged bray from the donkey outside, as if someone had rammed a broomstick up its ass, warns me to expect the worst. And it is the worst. Cordelia’s body now only houses Angel’s soul; Buffy’s body houses Spike’s. Buffy and Cordelia are sharing living accommodation with a very confused ass, and none of them seem to be able to sort out the experience of having a leg at each corner. The ass has done the splits in the paddock, and is looking terminally depressed.

The humans spend the rest of the day sulking in the paddock with the donkey. Spike and I sulk in the basement. Nobody’s going anywhere until sunset because I’ve got the car keys. At least She-Angel and She-Spike get to spend the day in the sun, which they later tell me almost makes up for what’s happened. Spike and I share the wizard, and a stringy old bird he is, too.

At sunset, six of us, plus the donkey, squeeze into the car. The fact that the donkey, with two human souls and an ass fighting over control – or three goddamned asses, come to that – still can’t get its legs sorted out does not make the seating arrangements particularly friendly. And they need to be friendly, even in a car as big as this. She-Angel gives me Hell all the way back, and now he has that whiny, bitchy voice while still being all schoolboy. I guess he just likes being schizophrenic. The donkey never shuts up. About half way back, they all give me Hell when the donkey gives up trying to communicate and takes an extremely long piss. She-Angel sulks, and tells me I’m going to be the one cleaning out the car. By the time we get back, everyone else, including the donkey, seem to be getting in touch with their inner selves. I’m getting a headache.

We park the car, and start the struggle to get the donkey up the stairs into the hotel. With the three of them inside, all trying to do their own thing, and four legs to go at, Spike and I finish up carrying it. Did I tell you how much more acute our hearing is than a human’s? Have you *any* idea how grating a donkey’s bray is at about two inches? You can bet I wasn’t going to go for the back end, though. Not with evil witch Queen C as one of the occupants.

After all that trouble, when we get to the lobby we’re greeted by Willow and Xander, carrying crossbows. Before we can dump the donkey and dive for cover, both Spike and I have been hit by tranquilliser darts. It seems that the Spuffy saga was not unknown in Sunnydale, and someone has been doing too much in the way of mathematics. Two plus two has definitely equalled five. The trank isn’t enough to put us out, but I don’t seem to have any feeling in my arms and legs, and the next thing we know, Spike, the donkey and me are sharing a cage. There are still feathers in here. If I finish up as a chicken… It seems that getting a donkey down stairs is easier than getting it up, especially if it slides down on its ass.

Willow’s good at the witching stuff, and she’s brought all the necessary kit with her. I can do nothing but watch, appalled, as she starts switching souls around, starting with the two girls. I suspect the only reason she’s giving them first dibs on getting their own bodies back is because of some misplaced concern for this wretched donkey which has been venting its spite on me by trampling me underfoot. I think it’s probably a good job it already had a piss in the car. My idiot childe knows what’s coming to him, and seems resigned, but if I could only move…

When it’s my turn, she gives me what seems to be a particularly malevolent glare, and I remember that she’s spent some time flaying people alive. Perhaps I don’t want to irritate her too much. And here comes that wretched, whiny, broody soul again, and I can’t *stop* it and I’m so….

…caged. Inside and out. Still, I can feel the sun on my face and the wind in my hair from his day out in the paddock. It was… nice. He had a picnic out there, too, from supplies in the wizard’s kitchen. He enjoyed human food, and I can still remember the taste. Not all bad, then. And he’s got some memories from Cordelia. Now those are extremely interesting… Including wearing ass’s ears. There are a lot more that will be useful, but I like remembering the ass part.

Season follows season with the inevitability of clockwork. Autumn always follows summer. Just wait until next time. I’ll have some reaping to do.

THE END
10 June 2004

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