Rating: NC17 overall.
Disclaimer: The Bee owns nothing. Certainly not the characters or products
mentioned in this story and unfortunately, the Bee makes no profit from it.
Summary: This story is a light hearted comedy/mystery.
It is based slightly (very slightly) on the plot of the old movie
"House Of Long Shadows". It is an HUA that tells the story of a very successful
mystery writer, Alexander Harris, who is suffering from a severe case of writer's
block. Against his better judgement, he accepts a $10,000.00 bet with his
publisher after claiming he can crank out a full manuscript in a 24 hour period. This
short story is his struggle to do that and the bizarre obstacles that pop up.
Warnings: Sexual dialogue and M/M slashy acts.
Note: The abundance of bad analogies in this chapter are dedicated to Geekgirl
who has a fondness for them.
As always, special thanks to the amazing Petxnd for her wonderful banners.
The five hapless adventurers stood, clumped together and watching the closed
door as though staring at it long enough would cause transparency and answer
the question of,
"Who do you think it is? Maybe Andrew wasn't dead. Maybe he is out
there wounded, bleeding, crawling through the mud, knocking on the door."
The others jumped at Angel's words but Willow was adamant.
"NO! You didn't see him but I did. He was dead, I tell you. Dead. Dead.
Dead. Cold as a mackerel on the wharf. Limp as a gay dick in a room full of
lesbians. Slimy as four lubed fags in a hot tub. He had been gutted! He was
roadkill! He was........."
"All right! Shit! We get the fucking idea!"
Buffy slapped her hands over her ears and she squeezed her eyes shut
hoping to squish the mental pictures Willow's words were painting.
Although the hot tub one was slightly intriguing.
Finally, deciding that none of the others were going to take the necessary step
to find out who the newest arrival was, Spike stepped up and shoved them
aside in a manner that he hoped screamed of courage and defiance.
"Only one way to find out, innit?"
He marched over, grabbing the huge solid doorknob and cursing the fact that
there was no peep hole, and he called out.
"Who is it?"
The male voice that responded was muffled, but very much alive.
"This is Detective Rupert Giles of the State Police. Mr. Ethan Rayne,
the owner of this property, contacted us and requested that we check on the
occupants of this estate. He believes some sort of impropriety is afoot.
Open the door! Now!"
Immediately, and with a collective sigh, the others grinned and watched
as Spike jerked the door open where he came face to face with more tweed
than he had ever known possible on one person.
The man was tall, thin, and wore and expression of bored professionalism
that gave them all a huge sense of relief. Buffy rushed forward and grabbed
the newcomer by the arm, jerking him roughly into the room as they all started
talking at once. Their voices raised, trying to be heard over each other, they
spouted, shouted and competed while the detective struggled to sort through
the mish mosh.
"Oh God, we are so glad you are here. There is a murderer slinking about!"
"The pizza boy disappeared. We tried to find him. We searched everywhere.
We even went upstairs."
"He's dead, I tell you. Dead. Dead. Dead as a door knob. Dead as..."
"How did Ethan know? Did he get my e-mail?"
"Where the fuck did you buy that suit?"
Tweed aside, Rupert Giles had a very authoritarian tone and his masterful
command instantly quietened the room. He quickly whipped out a flip pad, a
pencil and, after flicking his tongue against the lead, he began to jot down
notes. He then turned to Angel and asked what seemed to be the most pertinent
"Now, you say the pizza delivery boy is dead? Where?"
The front door of the mansion still stood wide open behind him and the wind
whistled in swirling a collection of dead leaves and pine needles around their feet.
It was almost anitclimatic that there was no fog machine cranking out low hanging
clouds of grey for a black cloaked Boris Karloff to stagger from as he muttered,
"I vant to suck your blood."
But now, the storm had passed and the dawn was not far away. Still, as the age
old saying goes, it is always darkest before the dawn and this seemingly endless
night was no exception.
Cautiously, Willow eased up to the threshold and she peered out into the inky
blackness, pointing off in the direction of the driveway.
"He's......he's out there. In the car. The yellow one. The one with the big
slab of pizza on the roof. He's in the trunk. He's dead. Dead, I....."
"I swear, Pet, if the bint say's it again, I'm going to clock her."
Xander patted Spike's arm reassuringly. He nuzzled his neck and murmured
in his ear that committing assault in front of the State Police might not be a
good idea. Spike snorted but settled for what he hoped was a menacing glare.
Willow stuck her tongue out at him.
All this time, Detective Giles was watching them. He was trying to gauge the
mettle of this odd collection of characters and determine if this is a legitimate
crime scene or if he had accidentally stumbled in on a looney bin that had been
overtaken by the inmates.
"Now see here, my good people. If there has actually been a crime committed
here tonight, this is a very serious matter. You say the victim is outside? Then
I do believe we should go have a look and I want you all to come along where
I can keep a proper eye on you."
The others nodded vigorously. There was safety in numbers and right now
they just wanted to survive the night. Buffy again grabbed onto Angel's
arm and appeared ready to pass out at any time.
Spike kissed Xander lightly on the lips, gripped his hand and locked their
fingers together tightly. Fact was, the killer could be any of them. Who was
to say Buffy and Angel, separately or together, couldn't have slipped back
downstairs while Spike and Xander were tugging off a quick one.
They could have sliced and diced the delivery boy and returned unseen.
The quiet ones were always the worst. Sure, she had shown up in overalls,
but there was no grease or oil on them. Maybe she isn't a mechanic at all.
Maybe it was ruse to gain access to a house full of rubes. Maybe she is
a psychotic nutcase just sniffing out a wounded hippo in the pond of life.
No, Xander was the only one that Spike was certain of. All the others
would be kept at a very safe distance.
Xander stared into Spike's clear blue eyes. As they then looked at each
of the other members of their party, Xander knew exactly what the blond
It was just what his own fertile imagination had been stirring up. It was the
startling knowledge that he knew absolutely nothing about these people.
It was a conspiratorial suspicion.
Locking eyes, Spike and Xander nodded and together, they followed the
detective out into the fearful night. As soon as they set foot past the threshold
they could feel the residual static snap in the air from the storm. It crackled
around them, prickling on their scalps and settling in their pants.
It was deep. It was heavy and, combined with the terror that churned in their
bowels, it was erotic as hell. Xander whimpered and Spike gasp. Their bodies
pressed closely together and their matching erections grew, twitched and.......
"All right you two. For Christ's sake. Put a fucking cork in it."
The men had the decency to look sheepish as they hurried over to where the
others were standing at the rear of the car. The detective had his hand on
the handle of the trunk and they all held their breaths. Somewhere off in the
background a dog howled, and an imagined drum roll started low and built .
Detective Rupert Giles twisted the latch and popped open the truck.
Spike tore Xander's hands away from his face and forced the boy to look down.
The trunk was empty.