Saint Joseph School

Penny sat in the customary booth with the customary people. Papa's Place was one of the last refuges for smokers who also wanted a little food with their drug, and the air swirled visibly with their exhalations.

She was recounting the story. She'd been shooed outside on patrol by a well-meaning nun. Sister Mary Banner believed in the health of body as well as soul, and she'd encouraged --well, if truth must out, commanded-- Penny to find some good outdoor activity to participate in.

"So I met up with Bobby and Violet and Matt, and we did some pretty intensive work against the Vazhilok and the Clockwork and the Circle of Thorns."

Penny described in some vivid detail their adventures in the sketchier parts of Paragon City, the fights, the deadly adversaries. Her cheeks, carefully powdered, betrayed a hint of pink as she warmed enthusiastically to her subject. A tone of admiration crept into her voice as she recounted Aeon's strength, Matt's clever baiting, Bobby's stalwart help. And as she talked, she saw Sheffield smiling, smiling at her, completely engrossed in her story. His long, elegant fingers moved over his ceramic coffee mug, black-painted nails like exclamation points. He took another sip and laughed to himself when his teeth clinked against the ice that he'd formed there, all subconsciously, while Penny had talked.

"Miss!" exclaimed Claudette, raising an arm, the black lace floating from her half-sleeves like the veil between worlds. "Could we have fresh coffee, please?" And Sheffield had looked embarrassed, his beautiful, achingly beautiful face pinning back into nonchalance as he realized he'd performed the Cardinal Sin of Goth: acting like you gave a shit.

"Penny, that sounds absolutely delightful," said Claudette, her painted eyebrows arching with condescension, as she reached out to pat Penny's hand. "Running through sewers, chasing down vomiting animated corpses, tackling hapless magicians. Really it does. You must tell us more stories sometime about your little adventures--" her hand paused, drew back in a perfect moue of studied distaste--"You have bathed since?" She sipped her coffee, leaving a heart-shaped imprint of blood-red lipstick.

Penny wanted to roll her eyes, but rolling one's eyes was Not Goth. Instead she rifled around in her coffin-shaped purse and drew forth a clove. She lit it, and let it hang between her fingertips like incense. "Of course."

"Really, Penny, it's almost rude of you to enjoy your little patrol time so much, considering that Sheffield and I can't play." Claudette's perfect mouth made a sad pout, eyes aching with unshed tears. Sheffield, knowing his cue, lifted her small hand in his, and laid a kiss on her wrist.

Penny felt her insides twist with a familiar mix of erotic voyeurism, envy, and self-contempt. They were so beautiful together. She didn't even have the right to look at Sheffield like that. And yet the beauty of their intimacy made it necessary for there to be an audience, and Penny, her tingling nethers squeezed into a too-tight pair of control-top pantyhose, her 24-hour bra digging trenches in her shoulderblades--fat Penny, physically worthless but capable of understanding those fine nuances of feeling --Penny had to be the witness. The beauty of it made her ache, and the look of langorous possession in Claudette's face as she looked at Sheffield gave a pain so glorious it almost made her cry aloud.

Me, oh, I wish it were me. No, oh god, she is so perfect, and him. Oh, it is so beautiful. Claudette extended her hand to Penny, then, stroking it, drawing her in to their magic triad, making her feel forgiven.

I know you love him, and that is acceptable, her phosphorescent green eyes seemed to say. I allow you to love him. And I forgive you loving him. But don't look at him. Look at me.

"Oh, Penny," Claudette sighed, "Your clove has gone out. Such a waste. Will you give me a fresh one?"

And later that night she would walk home with them. They were of a height, her perfectly tailored dress and his perfectly tailored jacket on a parallel--and, perpendicular and oblong, Penny would follow a step behind.

"This is bullocks," said Spike, running a hand through his perfect blond hair, only slightly now dirtied with grease and the ...

Penny closed her eyes and concentrated. The word would come. The perfect word.

... the effluvia of demon-blood, from his latest fight with the hardened monsters of the Land of St. Germaine.

"Patience," counseled Lady Penelope de'Ravenscar, her mysterious violet eyes flashing like amethysts in the deep moonlight. "Patience, William. We shall soon see these oafish louts tossed to the dogs, for dogs they are. They are not worth your anger, as encouraging as that rage is."

Spike took a moment to gaze at her, her tall stately form half-concealed in the dark shadows like a statue made of alabaster. Her dark hair was like a halo made of anti-light around her perfect face, and the dark black dress she wore, with the pearl trim, it was cut like the first dress he'd ever seen her in, one that made her look like an empress, or no, better, the high priestess of an ancient temple, which, he had come to learn, she also was. And a mighty priestess indeed, able to banish fell creatures with an elegant gesture of one slim hand.

"Wow," Penny thought, grinning to herself. This was quite good. Her face flushed as she thought about the upcoming romance scene, but before that first kiss, everything had to be perfect.

With a sudden clap of sonorous thunder, a group of terrible creatures gathered for the next onslaught of depredation. William the Bloody, or "Spike," as he insisted on calling himself, was the very epitome of heroic grace as he swung his body into action, taking on first one, then another of the horrible monsters.

"Run, Penelope!" he gasped, as they swarmed. "They're too many for me, duck! You must get to safety--"

Penelope raised her hands to the sky and bolts of lightning fell upon the enemies, singing them to a crisp. Spike fell at her feet, swooning, cut in a thousand places by claws and teeth. Her perfect face was covered by diamond tears as she raised his head in her arms.

"Do not die, my love!" said Lady Penelope, her icy composure made only more beautiful by this admission of love ...

Penny frowned.

made only more beautiful by this admission of sorrowful love. For it looked as though he might die. She arched her swanlike neck down to his mouth. "Drink, my love. Drink and live!"

Spike turned his face away, but, slowly, as if under a terrible passion, he moved his lips to the vein in her throat and ...

"For the love of Pete, Penny, will you turn that thing off so I can sleep?" Vesper murmured. "I have a geography test tomorrow morning."

Her sudden rage was so great she could have picked up the whole computer and bashed Ves's head in. How dare she speak? How dare she complain? Didn't she know that ART was afoot? But no. Philistines, all of them. And early risers to boot. There was no place in this world for an artist. What she needed was her own room, where she could think and imagine and dream. The fantasy of the perfect room calmed her.

She saved her work and turned off her glowing computer monitor, wiped the last chip-crumbs from her bosom.

She looked over at the cardboard cutout of James Marsters in all his Spikey glory. She undressed under her tentlike nightgown, turning her back to him as she did so. She loved looking at him, but she didn't want him to look back. Covered, hidden, she went to him, kissed his flat paper face, then sucked the cheese particles from under her nails. It didn't matter; she could dream about that kiss all night and in the evening, after her awful, awful classes were over, she could continue.

She even had a new piece to add. The triumph of the Lady Penelope de'Ravenscar over the moronic inhabitants of a local high school. She intended to kill Buffy in the next chapter. And Buffy's new friends would buy it too. She worked over epigrams and anagrams for Francis and Scarlett as she tucked the covers under her chins. Oh yes, they would pay. But not before being incredibly humiliated first.

Penelope smiled to herself, and was soon asleep, dreaming of almost-but-never complete kisses, staining her pillow not with blood, but with the leavings of orange dye number six and root beer.