Leaky Walls by Mad Hamlet

Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: All this belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Inc. (Reluctantly).
Distribution: The Mystic Muse http://mysticmuse.net
Feedback: Thank you.
Spoilers: Season 7.
Author's Note: What? WHAT?! Stop looking at me like that.
Pairing: Willow/Buffy

Summary: Tara makes pancakes. Wackiness ensues.

'Picture if you will a perfectly ordinary house on a perfectly ordinary street where in the warm, safe light of day perfectly ordinary things happen perfectly. The milk man picks up empty bottles at six am sharp; the newspaper boy is there with his deliveries by six thirty, first cups of coffee are in the hands of still groggy parents at seven, and mothers are bustling their children out the door to catch the school bus at eight. Consider though the possibilities of something perfectly extraordinary happening on this perfectly ordinary street somewhere in a suburb in America. The denizens of this street will know them all by the end of this day here, in The Twil-'

"Dawnie! Soups on!" Buffy Summers called into the living room from the kitchen doorway. With a sigh Dawn Summers flicked the off switch on the remote control banishing the rerun. Pulling herself to her feet she absent mindedly tossed the remote over her shoulder onto a sofa cushion and made her way to the kitchen.

Tara was moving quickly around the table setting the last few places. Plate in the center, fork on the left, knife on the right. Willow was rinsing off the last pan in the sink, a loud hiss coming from the sink as the red hot metal cooled under the cold water. Buffy herself was putting a huge plate of steaming pancakes in the middle of the table, adroitly stepping around the still circling and distracted Tara. "Mind the pancakes," the Slayer said.

Tara looked up, nodded slightly in apology, and set the last piece of silverware in its place.

Willow plunked a large bottle of maple syrup on the table and a tub of butter beside it. "Forgot these," she teased.

"Whew," Buffy countered; pantomiming someone wiping their brow in relief. "You just saved the dinner, Willow. In doing so you also probably fulfilled some ancient prophecy somewhere that in turn will prevent an apocalypse."

"Yeah," Tara nodded; she began speaking in a spooky tone, wiggling her fingers. "An ancient scroll reading, 'Lo, The Slayer Did Have Her Syrup, and Thus Went Forth with a Full Tummy Bringing Great Despair to the Undead That Eve."

Dawn watched this leaning against the doorway, arms crossed over her chest. "That's not soup," she said point at the still steaming stack of flapjacks.

"There's a can of Campbell's in the cupboard you're more than happy to nuke," Buffy replied sitting down in her chair.

Dawn instantly was seated directly across her older sister. "Metaphors are our friends," she said reaching for the plate of pancakes.

The next few minutes passed in relative, comfortable, silence; Tara was carefully spreading strawberry jam evenly over each of her unbuttered pancakes, Buffy was scooping spoonfuls of butter onto hers while Willow, with the tip of her tongue sticking out of the corner of her mouth in concentration, was using the syrup to draw a smiley face on her pancake.

Dawn who had, with teenage efficiency, drowned her own pancakes in a little bit of everything was already wolfing down her meal; the loud smacks of her furious chewing the only real sound in the kitchen.

The beginnings of a quiet evening, with family, around a dinner table, enjoying a nice evening meal.

Buffy turned to Willow and said, "Willow, would you mind spreading your nubile, pale, legs so I can suck the natural syrup straight from your red furred twat?"

Tara's jam tipped table knife dropped from nerveless fingers, bounced, and clattered to the floor.

Willow's hand jerked, skewing her carefully made maple syrup drawing off the pancake and nearly halfway across the table.

Silence again carried the through the room, not the peaceful silence of people doing but the silence of people conspicuously not doing.

Buffy blinked a few times, the sudden pressure of being under the level stares of the three other women sitting around the table catching her off guard.

Another few seconds of very loud silence. Dawn gave her mouthful of pancakes a single, solitary, chew.

Tara was the first to respond. "Actually," the blonde Wiccan mumbled. "You didn't."

"Yes I did!" Buffy insisted. "I said very clearly, 'Willow, when you're done drawing could I have the syrup.'"

"Nope, sis," she said with a shake of her head. "You may have thought that's what you said but what we heard was a probably the mother of all Freudian slips."

"Why? What did I say?" Buffy glanced at Willow who was still frozen in place, her eyes big as saucers. "Will? What did I you hear me say?"

The Slayer's gaze flickered over to Tara who sidestepped the unasked question by bending over in her seat and retrieving her knife.

Dawn, with only the teensiest hint of a smirk stood up and did not quite dance around the table to stand beside her sister.

Dawn bent over and started whispering into her sister's ear. Buffy's eyes first grew quite large and round, and then stayed that way. They kept on staying that way as Dawn, straightening up, again did not quite dance on her way back to her seat, sat down, and cut herself another bite of pancakes.

"Willow," Buffy said turning her attention to the redhead; the redhead who now looked like a deer caught in between to oncoming freight trains. "Willow, you know I love you right?"

Carefully, slowly, Willow put the pitcher of syrup down on the table which she had been holding this entire time. "Yeah," she replied, making sure the pitcher was not resting on any of the spilled syrup.

"Just not," Buffy continued. "All with, um…love from a girl, being me, offered and received by another girl, that being you, without all the-" Buffy stalled.

"Yes, exactly. Uh, packaging," Buffy agreed almost slumping over in relief. "I mean, you and Tara with the whole cuddling, kissing, and…packaging. That's great but personally I'm more, y'know, I mean I have preferences of my own that are more centered around- In other words I like-"

"Cucumber?" Dawn offered slamming down said vegetable in front of her sister. No one had noticed the youngest Summers slip away from the table and to the refrigerator.

Tara, who had been just about to take a sip of milk, snorted delicately and inhaled some up her nose. Her quiet wail of distress and subsequent coughing fit got Willow's attention. The redhead got up, made her way over to Tara's side, and handed the blonde a napkin.

Meanwhile Buffy was scowling at her younger sister who was grinning down at her. "You are so asking for an ass kicking." Buffy growled.

Buffy acknowledged this truth with a reluctant nod. Dawn's little prank, coupled with Tara's near drowning by milk had shattered the tension in the room. Willow was cooing softly, playing with errant bits of Tara's long, blonde hair; Tara was making goo-goo eyes back at Willow. Neither were paying any attention to The Slayer now or her kin.

"Fine," Buffy surrendered. "Don't do it again." She concluded waving her finger at Dawn.

"Never be such an opportunity," her younger sister chortled before sitting back down.

Seconds later Willow did likewise and there they sat. All save Dawn looking a little contemplative and more than a little puzzled. Willow turned her pancake over, starting another syrup drawing. Buffy started cutting up her own pancakes into even pieces, pretending not to notice the redhead's occasional worried glance in her direction.

"A burp from the Hellmouth," Dawn offered, chewing on yet another mouthful of pancakes.

The three older women stared at the teen for a split second before making general sounds of agreement.

The norm was almost restored. Buffy had opened her mouth to ask again for the syrup, Willow was mentally debating on what to do with her successful second attempt at Syrup-Smiley-Faced-Pancake-Man.

'If I cut a piece out of him he'll suffer,' she thought staring at her pancakes cheerful smile. 'But he's so big; I couldn't eat him all once.'

'Maybe if I just ate the one underneath,' Willow thought. 'Oh no, that would be insensitive to the needs of non-Happy-Faced pancakes! Oh maybe I could try to slide him off the table, release him into the wild when no one was looking.'

"Yes I did!" Xander shouted shaking his finger under the vampire's nose. Spike took a bite at the offending limb and Xander recoiled quickly.

With a muffled curse Buffy stood up and, slamming her hands on the table, shouted, "What the hell is going on here?"

"Harris here," he said jerking his thumb at the black haired young man. "Offered me a lap dance."

Buffy in the middle of the sofa, with Dawn on the left end, holding a cushion to her face. Occasionally she'd peek out from behind it to eye either Xander or Spike. Then she'd retreat back behind her 'shield' which would then start to tremble with suppressed giggles.

On Buffy's other side Willow sat with Tara curled up beside her, the blond resting her head on her girlfriends shoulder. They said little, their own gaze moving from person to person in the room.

Spike himself was in 'his' chair. The chair he always sat in when at the Summers and his feet up on the table, like always. Xander wasn't sitting. He lounged in the entrance way, leaning against a wall sucking the last of the syrup from his fingers; the last remnant of a pancake he had 'liberated' from someone else's plate.

No one said anything for a bit then, "Right," Buffy said taking control of the situation. "Xander, tell us what happened."

"I bumped into Spike on the way here," the young man started. "We walked a ways and he started doing his usual shtick of baiting, insinuation, y'know."

Spike started singing quietly, "Harris is a tattletale, Harris is a tattletale."

He shrugged. "That's it really, I asked him if he kept that up he'd be asking for a knuckle sandwich. Then he started laughing. I thought it was nothing special. Just more of his bravado."

Spike interrupted, "Then I called him a cheeky sod, informed him that I wasn't that desperate. Harris looked confused at that, we traded a few more barbs."

Xander took over again, "Spike kept saying that I should ask again on a slow weekend. I didn't have a clue what he was talking about."

Again the blonde vampire interrupted. "Sure you did, Harris. Stop playing hard to get, embrace your new found lifestyle you little shag toy."

Xander came off the wall fists clenched, Spike lurched out of his seat his smirk firmly in place.

"We're going to remain calm and figure out what's going on," Buffy said trying to sound nonchalant. "Xander, relax. Spike, I'll let him beat you to a pulp. May take a while but still big time in the entertaining factor.

Spike sat back down, kicked up his feet on the table, "I'm not worried pet, everyone knows they're so limp wristed."

Xander took another step then sighed. "So," he said leaning against the wall again. "Something weird is going on because I know I didn't-" he waved his hand in a 'you know' gesture.

"Um," Willow peeped. "We kinda, sorta figure that out too. Something, weird I mean. Yeah, something weird is going on 'cause," she glanced at Buffy who shrugged. "It happened here too," the redhead finished.

Spike's eyebrows shot up. "Oooo," he purred. "Nasty secrets slipping out eh? Do tell, do tell."

"No secrets slipped out," Buffy said emphatically crossing her arms. "Just a, a-" she faltered.

"Who the heck?" Buffy asked aloud standing up. She crossed the room and opened the door. On the front porch stood a middle aged man. He was tall, broad shouldered and had a shock of black hair swept back. It was just starting to turn silver along the temples. He wore black slacks and had on a bright blue dinner jacket silver cufflinks on the arms. He stared at The Slayer coolly. Buffy took a step back involuntarily. 'My God,' she thought to herself. 'His eyes.'

They were gray, slate gray with no hint of humanity or empathy anywhere within; they glittered in the dim porch lighting like ice on a frozen sidewalk.

"Pardon the late hour madam," the stranger said with a slight nod of his head. His accent was foreign but Buffy couldn't quite place it. "Is there a 'Willow Rosenberg' at this domicile?"

"I am Descartes Enthalpies Uttar," the stranger said smoothly stepping across the threshold.

"I represent a certain computer consortium that, having heard of Ms Rosenberg's abilities, was polity asked by my employers to see if her services were available."

"Willow," Buffy called not taking her eyes off Mr. Uttar. "Someone's here to see you."

Buffy rolled her eyes while Mr. Uttar smiled indulgently. "Come in," Buffy said shutting the door behind the gentleman.

Together they stepped into the living room and the tall man's eyes instantly locked onto Willow. He took in her red hair, the green eyes, the flowery dress and the other woman, Tara, curled up beside her.

"It's true," the middle aged man breathed. "You are the one spoken of in prophecy, the one who will end the game and undo all my great works."

Uttar reached into his business jacket, which did not hang below his belt, and pulled out a two handed, claymore war-sword with a five foot blade. He charged the Wicca swinging the sword violently up into an overhand blow that would cleave the girl from head to crotch.

Instead it sent him caroming across the room straight into the arms of Spike, now fully in game face. Spike caught the taller man, grabbed him by his lapels, spun him around and said, "Cheers, mate," before sinking his teeth into Uttar's throat.

The gentleman's sword clattered to the floor as he shook, jerked, and with a death rattle slumped over as Spike drank. With a snort, Spike tossed the body beside the fallen weapon.

Everyone stood still in shock, except Spike who was wiping his mouth with his hand.

Everyone's eyes zeroed in on Spike. He seemed a bit puzzled himself. "Good point that, bit," he murmured.

He strode across the room and gave Xander an experimental swat on the arm, he snarled a bit, holding his hand to his temple. "It's still working," the vampire growled.

"Then he wasn't human," Willow concluded looking down on the corpse of the late Mr. Uttar.

Spike smacked his lips a few times looking puzzled. "Certainly tasted human except," he paused and smacked a few more times loudly.

"Well," Spike finally concluded. "Definitely human but a little bit more, an added zesty zip to our friend here. Can't quite place it." He shrugged. "Maybe he just had a big Mexican dinner the night before or something."

"Fools!" Uttar roared surging off the floor, scooping up his fallen weapon. "I am im-"

Spike punched him squarely in the nose with a nice left. Another left followed by a rapid right had the gentlemen spinning in place. Yanking him close Spike again sank his teeth in to the stunned man's neck.

Another series of noisy sucking sounds, another death rattle, another clang of a metal weapon falling from paralyzed fingers and finally another thud of a dead body hitting the floor.

Spike dropped the drained body of Mr. Uttar again. "Christ," he moaned slumping into a chair. "That's the fifth time in the last," he glanced at a clock. "thirty minutes. I'm fit to bust." He loosened his belt buckle.

Buffy came marching back into the room, "Just got off the phone with Giles," she announced. "His flight arrives in the morning."

Buffy paused, and walked backwards out of the living room. ".gninrom eht ni sevirra thgilf siH. seliG htiw enohp eht ffo tog tsuJ," she said on the way out.

Buffy came marching back into the room, "I just got off the phone with Giles," she announced. "He was at the Magic Box, should be here any moment. What?" She caught sight of everyone staring at her.

"Um," Dawn said. "You just…." she glanced around the room. "Someone wanna back me up here?"

Giles burst through the front door. "I've found the answer!" he shouted excitedly.

Xander nearly jumped five feet straight up. "Great Googely Moogely," he said. "When did you get here, An?"

Anya looked puzzled. A confused frown across her face, "I'm not sure." she finally replied, glancing around the room. "But I have this sudden urge to make you feel awkward in front of your friends with socially unacceptable commentary regarding orgasms. Specifically our own orgasms. "

Anya beamed and promptly vanished again. Her only real purpose for existence now complete.

"Again, that's in the category of great," Willow chimed in. "Only two little things. First," she ticked a finger.

"We don't know the problem, second," another finger. "How'd you get here so fast?"

Then he walked back to the front door and peered at the frame suspiciously, rubbing his chin and muttering under his breath. He poked his head back in the living room. "Er, Willow, Tara, did either you two ladies…?" he asked wiggling his fingers as if casting a spell.

"Which were magical," Tara added dreamily. "Because my beloved witch made them for me."

"Aw," Willow cooed nuzzling the blonde Wiccan’s jaw line. "That's so sweet honey."

"Have I told you how much I love you?" Tara asked, looking into Willow's warm smile, her voice cracking with emotion, tears beginning to form in the corner of her eyes. "You mean so much to me, you're all the good fuzzy moments wrapped up in one glorious moment."

Willow found herself blinking away tears as Tara's sudden and heartfelt speech continued. "I want to wake up curled in your arms every morning," the blonde Wiccan whispered. "Protected, safe, and warm underneath the covers with you. The outside world with its hard edges and deep shadows, for those brief, brief moments locked away like a scary, bad memory." She took a deep breath.

"Never again do I have to fear the lonely road!" Tara continued. "For you, my soul mate, you who I have found in life after life after life walk with me and with your friends I have found my place in this world at last." Another deep breath.

"No!" Tara crowed, flinging her arms wide, accidentally backhanding Willow off the sofa. "For where angles fear to tread I shall follow you, oh keeper of my heart, oh crimson locked snuggle toy of delicate, gentle fingers and a tongue with an average flicker rate of about seventeen licks per second, I will always find you; yea though the combined forces of fear, despair and cheesy, pointless plotlines bar my path I will find you over every mountain, across every sea and despite every writers meeting where stupid ideas are flung around, seized upon and used regardless of how well they actually work in the overall storyline."

From the floor, hand against her face, Willow was now openly staring at Tara who didn't seem to notice. Tara was crying hard, tears of joy, actually more like twin gouts of happiness, she couldn't have seen anything anyhow.

Buffy herself was looking from Willow, to Tara and back again while Spike was busy trying to shove his finger down his throat. Dawnie was too busy to pay attention, translating ancient runes of a long forgotten language that just happened to be in a book on the table. "How to serve man," she mumbled jotting quick notes onto her pad.

Xander was forgotten, still leaning against the wall. Which is what usually happens to him so who cares?

Tara took another deep breath but before she could launch into another tirade of espousing her overwhelming devotion to Willow there was a great crack and flash of brilliant light. Before them a mysterious figure appeared in the middle of living room.

He was tall, dressed in midnight blue robes with delicate silver embroidery that flowed along the hem and collar, graceful, arched lines catching the dim light so as they looked like they were dancing over the darker cloth. A long flowing beard sable and sliver, with its tips gently resting on the floor, hung from a friendly grandfatherly face where bright blue eyes, behind half moon spectacles, glowed with a warm, almost paternal friendliness.

Up until The Slayer's reverse flying spin-kick caught him upside the head then the friendly eyes, along with the rest of him went catapulting across the room, over the sofa, Dawn nonchalantly leaning out of the way, and landed with a heavy thud on the floor behind the furniture.

"I don't care who you are," Buffy declared, standing heroically in the center of the living room, her fists clenched, ready for battle, ice cold eyes on her perceived enemy ready for anything, her chest heaving and her breasts not even making the slightest hint of a boing-boing sound. "No one teleports into my house to attack me and those I love!"

"He's unconscious love," Spike drawled from his chair. "Doubt he cares very much at the mo'. Though I'm very impressed."

"He dropped this," Dawn said picking up a card that had drifted to the floor after Buffy's impromptu and highly effective Bruce-Lee demonstration.

"Aldus Dumbledore, Headmaster. Hogwarts school of Wizardry and Witchcraft," Dawn read aloud. "Hey Will, this some foreign exchange program?"

Willow was visibly straining, her hand covering Tara's mouth who, oblivious of the attempts to muffle her, looked like she was trying to sing.

"I can't quite make it out," Xander said leaning over the two struggling witches. "But it sounds a little like Whitney Houston's 'I'll Always Love You.'"

"Willow," Buffy said, a dangerous edge to her voice. "If your hand slips and she is actually singing that song…."

"I've got it," Willow started but one of Tara's dramatically gesturing hands caught behind her ear. "Ow, damnit baby."

Giles stepped forward, "As fascinating as this all is I really have something important to tell-"

Uttar's bellow of rage leaped from the floor again and this time, dodging past Spike hurled himself upon Willow, wrapping his iron like fingers around her throat. Muscles dedicated to centuries of the sword and the art of battle tensed, like steel cords, as he squeezed mercilessly. Between clenched teeth he snarled out, "I…will…not…be…undone! The prophecy…will…not…come…to…pass!"

Willow gasped, gagged, choked, coughed, gargled, whimpered, snorted, drooled, got a runny nose, started crying herself, and even gave a little yelp. Knowing the greater danger, though, she did not remove her hand from Tara's mouth and allow the blonde to start singing.

Buffy casually scooped up the forgotten Claymore, grabbed Uttar's hair and pulled his head back. "Hey Sparky," she said staring into his upturned face. "You look tense, why don't you have a lie down?"

And so saying she slammed Uttar onto the floor and shoved the point of the sword through his chest, ribs, evil, twisted, immortal, and slightly yellow colored heart, spine, back, the expensive, hardwood, tri-planed oak floor and the cement foundation underneath.

"Ha!" Uttar gurgled coughing up blood. "This will not stop me; nothing can stop me at least for the most part." Buffy shoved the handle of the pommel down with a heel stomp, pinning Uttar in place.

"Well," Uttar gasped, his hands feebly tugging at the blade, the light in his gray eyes dimming. "I'll admit it's damned inconvenient."

"What?" Spike glanced around looking confused. He was pulling out a cigarette from the inner pocket of his duster.

With a slight flick of his wrist a small nozzle protruded from the cuff of Giles' tuxedo which he hadn't been wearing a moment ago. A terrible whoosh of superheated air shot from the seemingly innocent apparel and a great fireball leapt across the space between Giles and the vampire incinerating the creature before he had a chance to scream.

"Wh- What have you done?" Buffy gasped in horror at the still smoking pile of ash in the chair.

"Nothing out of sort, my dear," Giles said coolly tapping an expensive looking European cigarette on the face of his Omega Seamaster Professional 300M wristwatch. "Standard operating procedure really."

"You're the man, G-Man," Xander crowed slapping Giles on the back putting a slight crease in the otherwise impeccable black tuxedo.

"Mr. Harrison, please," Giles winced slightly straightening his tux. He lit the cigarette with another deft flick of the wrist lighting the cigarette with the miniature flamethrower at its lowest setting. "Don't call me 'G-Man.'"

He took a deep drag off the cigarette and let the smoke curl out of his nostrils lazily. "The name is Giles," he said staring at the camera with a slight smirk, eyes glittering dangerously. "Rupert Giles."

Camera Angle: Down the Barrel of a Gun. It tracks Rupert Giles as he walks on across the scene. He suddenly spins, stares right down the barrel and drinks a cup of tea.

The screen fades to black for a few seconds than an all white room with only a highly reflective black floor fades in. The words appear in the middle, shiny red chrome spelling out:

A silhouette of a woman, in profile, lounging on the floor fades in, the dim light lets us see her face, it's Buffy stretched deliciously across the floor.

HIS DUTY WAS TO TEACH HER…This blonde who could put you in TRRRaacccttiiioonnnn!!

Even though only a silhouette it's painfully obvious that she's naked. She raises one leg off the ground holding it straight up, she runs the point of a stake up and down along her leg; lips pursed slightly.

COULD BE ALL THE ATTENTION SHE GOT…with her body all luscious and cuuurrvvvvyyyyy….

Willow and Tara also slink in, again just silhouettes with only a dim light to illuminate their faces. They stride sensuously across the floor and lift Buffy to her feet. They embrace not noticing a vampire creeping up from behind.

Rupert Giles steps up behind the Vampire and smashes it to the ground with hammer blow to the neck. Pinning it down with his heel he dispatches it easily with a stake that shoots out of his tie.

Shaking his head slightly Giles exits stage right passing Dawn who's trying to slink sexily onto the stage.

She's making a noble go at it despite being wrapped from toe to neck in what appears to be three or four straight jackets locked with heavy, black iron chains. A sign around neck reads in large letters: UNDERAGE CHARACTER. DO NOT OPEN, EVER!!

The ladies continue to slink all over each other. Additional lightning fades in from above illuminating just a few centimeters of flesh. It's kinda shiny, like it's oiled. As one the ladies turn their backs to the camera and a close up shot of Rupert Giles face, staring coldly at the camera appears there. One hand holding what looks like a Walters PPK, the other, palm up, upon which rests a large, old looking book. On top of the book in a delicate glass is a martini.

Dawn, still wrapped head to toe, makes a few desperate attempts at wiggling seductively only to lose her balance and fall over with a shriek. She lays there ignoring Willow, Tara, and Buffy who have resumed the slinkage.

Giles steps back in toward the ladies from stage left. Buffy separates her self from the others and strides toward him with definite cheese walk Sex-Factor seven in use. She grabs Giles by his tie who continues to look unperturbed. She lifts her leg to fling it around his waist….

A hand comes out from stage left, grabs Buffy by her hair, and yanks her offstage.

"Who? Huh? What? Where?" Buffy gasped looking around crazily. She was in the dining room, her back to a wall. From beyond in the living room she could only hear what best sounded like a cacophony.

"Look," The man replied. "It's taking all of my energy to keep the others from noticing you're gone. Some have but I've been able to keep their choices from effecting you. I can't do it forever so sit down, shut up, and listen."

He was average looking. Brown hair, goatee, hazel eyes. Dressed in a gray t-shirt with a tea brown button down over. Blue jeans and old mountain boots completed the package. He peeked around the corner of the doorway into the living room.

"Who are you?" Buffy whispered at him. "What's going on? What are you doing in my house and why are we hiding?"

"Oh, well that explains everything," Buffy grumbled. "So, why is a man, who reads stories to children in libraries, in my living room?"

"Not that kind of storyteller," the man shook his head, still staring out through the doorway. "A Storyteller. Capital 'S'"

"And what difference does that make?" Buffy hissed. She was rapidly losing her temper.

"Whatever," Buffy said loudly standing up. "You tell me what's going on or so help me I'll-"

"Like you can stop me," she growled stepping through the hallway to the living room. And she was crouching beside the man in the dining room.

"I'm a Storyteller," The man replied. "And you’re the story. Aha, an opening!"

Flinging his arm forward he paused then pulled hard, like someone reeling in a fish, though in this case the rod, fish, lake, boat, bait, hook or anything to do with actual fishing didn't actually exist. It's called a simile.

"I can't keep you safe for long," The man replied interrupted her. "The others will notice but this is the only chance I've got. I needed you here Willow, and you Buffy."

"What's going on? Willow asked looking around anxiously. "I was over there, I think I was feeding somebody something."

She paused looking thoughtful. "I…think I was wearing something kinda odd too. Can't quite remember what but I think it was pretty drafty."

"Got me?" Willow gaped at the same time. "No one's got me; no one's allowed to get me. Except Tara, oh and maybe-"

"Who are all these people?" Buffy continued. "Who are you? Who's Uttar? Is this your fault? What's causing all these weird things?"

"In that order," he said taking a deep breath. "Not sure, I'm me, don't know, I don't think so and to conclude," another deep breath. "The Fourth Wall is failing."

"It's like this," The man explained pouring them each a glass of orange juice. They were all now sitting outside, on a sunny day. The ocean waves roared in pounding the beach. Children laughed and played in the sand. "Everything is real but in our world it's pretty boring. Lots of what you guys do is a TV show for us."

Two life guards wandered by, "So Mitch," one asked the other. "How are you going to spend the afternoon? Acting all macho or running in slow motion?"

"But, but," the other lifeguard started sobbing. "I thought you only wanted to ever watch me run in slow motion; pectoral muscles bouncing up and down, hairy chest coated with oily suntan lotion…" their walked on, the words of their conversation, or lovers spat(?), drowned out by the pounding surf.

Buffy just sipped her orange juice. 'This is a dream,' she thought. 'A weird, weird dream.'

He ignored Buffy's stunned look and plowed on. "Where I come from there is the core story, Canon, it's called. Storytellers like me and others, we're called fanficcers."

"Oh, I've heard of that," Willow gushed. "Fans of a particular something or other write stories reinventing the whatever to whatever it is that they want. Whatever that might be."

The man fixed his attention on the redhead. "Wow," he said. "You really are cute when you do that."

"Anyhow," The Storyteller continued. "Your world is one that we view, it's television show. Look, don't ask questions that waste time. You're a show to us, accept and move on. Now, with fanficcers imagine then that every time one of us writes a story, a new reality, based either very closely or barely resembling yours, goes spinning off into the void."

"IPID," Willow interrupted. "You're talking about IPID. Infinite Possibilities in Infinite Dimensions."

"It's like this, Buffy," Willow explained turning toward her friend. "The idea is that every time you make a choice there's another reality where you chose differently. That…um…besides every reality there's another almost just like it but different for one choice."

"Exactly," the man chipped in. "Even to the point where, what in my world are mere television shows, are really real somewhere else."

"So…there's a universe or a reality for every decision every thing has ever made?" Buffy asked hesitantly.

"My head hurts," Buffy groaned putting her head in her hands. Then, "Okay other realities, not my problem, this reality: My problem so. What exactly is the problem? The Fourth wall? What's that?"

They were now walking down a metal hallway, humans and aliens walked around but the three of them didn't notice. They didn't notice any of the two million people wrapped in twenty five million tons of whirling metal, all alone in the night.

"When you watch, or read a story there are, metaphorically, three walls." The Storyteller explained. "The back, and sides of the characters world, for example your back door and the walls of your living room. The Fourth Wall is the wall through which viewers or readers 'See' the story. We can look but cannot touch. Observe and enjoy but never change anything. Despite any stories that fanficcers normally write, the core reality is unaffected. The canon does not change, it is inviolate. Or it was."

They ducked down a passageway and entered the Zoloco. "The …main storyteller," the man explained. "The guy who brought your world to ours-"

"I don't know," the man shrugged sitting at an iron wrought table. A waitress brought three more glasses of orange juice. "I have no idea how it works, does his writing the story create your world, or is he merely the first to see it? Recreate it for others in our world? I think the latter personally and that's where the problem comes in."

"I think he tried to introduce his ideas, to force his views onto the core story, your world, without taking into account the currents already involved," another sip. "And that somehow weakened The Fourth Wall."

"Er, the…the…" the Storyteller seemed flummoxed. "Events already begun that move in a certain direction. Choices we make, the kind of lives we lead these have inertia and the greater the story becomes, the greater the events, the greater the inertia.

He drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, thinking. "Okay, imagine a terrible accident in your lives. Well, you certainly couldn't go about the next day as if nothing happened. The inertia of the accident would control, to an extent, your decisions, your behavior, and thus the behavior of those around you.

"How does The Fourth Wall's failure affect us?" Willow asked ignoring her own beverage.

"All the storytellers can get in now," the man answered. "You saw the opening effects. Their desires are now reflected on the core world, the Canon. What they want to see happen will happen. And no one in your world will have any say in the matter whatsoever. I've used my own skills to keep you both unaffected for the most part but I can't do it forever."

"Ah, the dining room table," the man nodded slowly, staring at his drink. "Well…and your willingness to muffle Tara" he inclined his head toward Willow. "Drink your juice, both of you. It's got vitamin C."

Both girls automatically picked up their glasses and chugged down the juice without hesitation.

"I'm sorry," he cringed a little. "A demonstration was required. Now imagine another storyteller doing that only with something a little less," he paused. "Harmless."

Both the girls were silent for a moment then Willow let out another shriek, this time of anger and disgust. The Storyteller had some idea, actually he had a perfect idea, what was going through the Wiccan’s head but he wasn't about to repeat them aloud.

Buffy merely paled, her hand tightening around her glass until it shattered and the sharp edges dug into her hand, which healed instantly before having the chance to bleed. The glass fragments vanishing, evaporating into nothingness.

"Hurm," the man scratched his chin. "Easy really. We put the story, what is supposed to be, what was meant to happen from the very beginning back on track."

"And what was changed?" Willow pressed leaning forward, staring at the goateed man intently.

He returned her gaze, coolly, "You didn't tell each other the truth," he replied resting his chin on interlocking fingers.

All three of them were back in the dining room. The noise beyond in the living room was reaching an ear piecing volume. Buffy and Willow glanced around the corner.

In every corner were lots of normal looking people, male and female, tall and short. Some were watching while others seemed to be…making waving gestures in the air. Like conductors leading an orchestra.

Giles was wearing a pink tutu and being waltzed around the living room by Ethan Rayne. Xander was tugging on Oz's arm while Oz was trying to kiss Veruca. Riley was also there. He didn't seem to be saying very much. In fact he wasn't moving at all. Buffy narrowed her eyes slightly.

Tara brushed past Riley, running around the living room wearing nothing at all but a clover wreath around her forehead scattering rose petals and maple leaves everywhere. Riley, or the cardboard cutout of Riley, teetered and fell over.

Spike was back standing looking very confused. On either side of him were two other people. Both looked normal. Perfectly normal, absolutely one hundred percent normal, nothing was wrong with them, nothing whatsoever. Are you getting me? They were NORMAL!!

"Bloody 'Ell," Spike groaned before bursting into flame once more. He looked bored.

Uttar bellowed from the floor, "I live you fools! I LIVE!" He noticed the sword still pinning him to the floor. "Crap, not again. Blecaarrgh."

"I pledge my soul to the forces of Darkness, Evil, Death, Globalization, Bad Grammar, and Modern Pop Music," Amy muttered in passing.

A large man ambled by behind Amy, "C'mon," he said clearly. "It's a leather bustier, try it on. You'll like it!"

In the living room a voice was heard shouting, "Hey, let's get some baby oil and whipped cream, and watch all the characters play Twister!"

"Upstairs in her room," The Storyteller replied. "I'm keeping her out of this too, but it's taxing."

The man snickered. "Breaking my own rules of characterization here," he said. "But this is an emergency."

The man turned to her, "Tell each other the truth. But not yet!" he held out both hands. "First I have to think of a way to distract the others, if you start pushing the story back on track they'll know about it and some, who wouldn't want it to go that way, might push back."

"Oh please," the man muttered never taking his eyes off the goings on in the living room. "I don't have time to coach you through an epiphany. Just get going when I give the word or you'll be stuck with that for the rest of whatever."

Tara was now wearing a bridal dress, a bloody red one and had a whip in one hand, and a copy of Donald Trumps autobiography in the other. She was standing on Devon, Larry and Parker who, with heads bowed and only wearing black Speedos were on hands and knees. Heads bowed subserviently. "Now, off to conquer the world!" Tara cackled.

Glory entered the living room wearing a smile. "Time for your sponge bath mistress." Ben entered behind her also sorta not wearing a heck of a lot.

"We've been very bad, mistress." he said. "So Sis and I think we need to be punished."

"Yes, mistress," Glory cheered. "Make us watch your huge recorded collection of reality TV shows."

"Oh man," Buffy moaned slumping to the floor again. Willow still stared across the hallway, staring like someone passing a horrible car accident, unable to look away.

Jenny Calendar and Harmony were engaged in mortal combat. Both wearing chain mail bikini's that had about all the protective value of a port-a-potty in a tornado. Their blades spun and danced in the light.

At one point they locked and, despite all the noise Willow clearly heard Jenny gasp into the brain dead blonde's ear, "Remember, the winner pleases the loser until exhausted."

"Promises, promises," Harmony whispered back. "Kiss, kiss." she puckered her lips.

Startled the Storyteller whipped his head in the direction Willow was staring. "Son of a bitch," he breathed.

Joyce Summers was alive and well once again. Standing tall, straight and proud in the middle of the living room. She wore a Greek toga that, through a clear violation of physics, clung to her body like a second skin. She crooked her finger invitingly and Fred, who nobody in Sunnydale had met yet everyone somehow recognized, followed Joyce into a dark corner.

Willow was hugging herself tightly, eyes squeezed shut. "Wrong," she was chanting under her breath, rocking back and forth on her knees. "Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. This is so wrong."

Willow's eyes shot open. "Nothing!" she exclaimed. "Nothing at all. Just the normal random, chaos and debauchery you'd expect were there to be thirty or forty omnipotents controlling everyone else in our lives like puppets."

Buffy's eyes glazed over for a second and the Storyteller put his fists to his temple, stifling a groan.

The Storyteller grimaced, "The sad thing is," he said. "Is that the really warped fanficcers aren’t even here yet."

The man closed his eyes in concentration, "I'm losing it." he groaned. "There's just so many."

"You saw," he said to Willow. "Lots more like it. Good, bad, bloody, criminal…over and over again. It would make what Joss has in mind seem like cakewalk."

He leaned around the corner, "Be ready, do it or every thought of hell you ever had won't be even one millionth as bad as the reality."

The Storyteller leaned around the corner, "HEY GUYS!" he shouted. "TELL US ALL WHY SEASON SIX SUCKED!!"

"Well, that's easy," said a voice from the crowd. "It was because Willow's character-"

"That's not it!" Another interrupted. "There was nothing wrong with Season Six, it was dark, yes but the original vision-"

"One has to understand the fundamental flaw that existed in Willow's and Tara's relationship from the very-"

Voices overrode voices. Someone threw a punch. There was a retaliatory blow, someone pushed someone else, the scuffle became a brawl, the brawl a riot; soon there was an all out war going on. Dust clouds and flailing limbs were the only thing to be seen.

"Now," The Storyteller shouted at Buffy and Willow. "Tell the truth NOW!" he paused. "Unless you don't mind incestual, bondage, waste material, menstrual orgies with spikes, whips, chains, in public till the end of time. And that's on good days."

They took two steps toward each other, wrapping their arms around the others waist, Buffy tilted her head back, Willow leaned forward and lips brushed against lips.

With a deafening roar the power of a million realities crackled through the air into The Storyteller.

The girls stopped their kiss and stared at him, "That was so lame," Buffy offered.

The man shrugged apologetically, raw potential still crackling around him. "Sorry. Got carried away."

He closed his eyes; the furious crackle of possibilities calmed into a softly glowing white and then began to coalesce. As it the light shrunk it grew brighter and brighter, focusing onto his cupped palms until, within a nearly blinding white like the first star's first day, a shape formed.

"It is a Wall, Buffy," the man said grinning. He took two steps forward, reached around blindly in thin air with his free hand as if feeling for something and then, "There it is."

He reached up with the other hand and slid the brick he held into place and it vanished.

A slight tremor passed through the earth, air, and sky. Soap bubble thin and just as delicate yet as irresistible as the tides.

"Everything's fixed," the man grinned. "The story is back on track, the right track and no one except you guys have any say in the matter. The Wall is restored. Once again all we storytellers can do is create echoes of the Canon. You are the Canon now."

The two girls, hands clasped, walked across the hallway and rejoined the others in the living room.

Tara, who was sitting, totally restored and none the wiser, as were any of them, in her corner of the sofa. Dawn was sitting in the other end, not a book anywhere near her.

Xander, Giles, and Spike were nowhere in sight. Nor were their any other signs of the chaos that had erupted in the living room a short time ago.

"I'm-" Buffy swallowed. "I'm afraid not, Dawnie. I don't think anyone here will want pancakes for a long, long time."

"Because we have something to tell both of you," Willow again finished Buffy's sentence.

Across the street an odd party was assorted. A large group of people were staring intently at Buffy's house. Not as large as the crowed that had been in the living room, no these were a select few. They could not be seen because they did not want to be. It wasn't part of the story.

"Can't believe we pulled that off," someone muttered. "When Joss breached the Fourth Wall, the best I thought we could hope for was repairing the damage. I never imagined…."

"Well, we did," Interrupted The Storyteller. "Restored the story, gave it a little spin more to our own liking and none, save ourselves, are the wiser."

He clapped his hands together and rubbed them gleefully. "This should result in nothing but happy endings."

The front door flew open and Tara, her long hair whipping behind her, ran across the front lawn tears streaming from her eyes and into the dark.

"Yeah," The man replied, tossing a tiny shard of white at the speaker. "Not much left, only good for a small change or two."

The front door flew open and Tara, her long hair whipping behind her, ran across the front lawn tears streaming from her eyes and straight into the arms of a redheaded girl of about eighteen years old.

"Hello," she said to the startled blonde in a British accent. "M'name's Ginny Weasley and you're the person I've always wanted."

There was a collective groan from the crowd, "I though we agreed no cross-overs?" Somone grumbled.

"My try," someone else said plucking the last of the white from the female Storyteller's fingers.

The front door flew open and Tara, her long hair whipping behind her ran across the front lawn tears streaming from her eyes and into the arms of Faith.

"Faith," Tara breathed even though she had only ever met the rouge Slayer when she was in Buffy's body.

"What's wrong, Tara?" Faith asked even though she had never actually met Tara in her own body before.

"Buffy…" Tara sobbed. "Buffy and Willow ar-are together now. I knew this would happen, I knew it and it's a good thing, the right thing. The way things are meant to be but it still hurts so much."

Faith smiled warmly, "Hey," she said. "Want to come with me? Got room for one more on my bike, and the road is kinda lonely."

"Well," Tara said huskily suddenly pouting sensuously, flickering the tip of her tongue over her lips. "I've always been attracted to your leather pants and devil may care bad girl attitude, Faith."

"Let's jet then," Faith said flinging Tara into her lap over the Harley 1977 Blackhawk that was now there.

"Oh, very good," The Storyteller sighed rubbing his eyes tiredly. "Very subtle. I'm going to bed."

"It's Canon!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "I doubt very much they're going to leap into bed on the first evening!"

He saved the story, shut off the machine and went to bed. The Core, Canon itself was now changed. It had been a little hammy at times but the end result was the same.

"Checkmate, Joss," Mad-Hamlet said, crawling into bed making sure not to disturb his baby daughter. "Checkmate."

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Leaky Walls

by Mad Hamlet

Copyright © 2004

Mad-hamlet@usa.net