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our town knows how to celebrate a special occasion
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There are prom flyers up on all the school bulletin boards. The theme this year is "Viennese Carnival"! Tickets are cheaper in advance, buy now! YOU MAY ONLY ATTEND PROM WITH A DATE. DO NOT BREAK UP WITH YOUR DATE AT PROM; LEAVE THE GYMNASIUM FIRST. VIOLATORS OF THIS RULE WILL BE IMMEDIATELY EJECTED.

...Well, that's about fifty kinds of suspicious.

"Hey, Giles," she says after school, a flyer torn on one corner from where she was uncautious about pulling it from its staple, "does this all-caps warning here look fifty kinds of suspicious to you?"
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"...Yes," he says. "Yes it does."

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"Do you suppose Sunnydale High has some known problem with people going stag to prom mysteriously dying or otherwise suffering nasty fates that I should fix?"

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"I think that is extremely likely."

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"Cool. How do we figure out what it is?"

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"Some... kind of records... must exist," he says. "What are the odds they're in this library, I wonder?"

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"I don't know where records of prom deaths might live. My first idea was to figure out who wrote the flyer and figure out where they got their info."

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"Well, then, we each have an avenue of research to pursue."

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"Alrighty. Prom's not for a while, so no huge rush." Pause. "Although if I'm going, I have to invite Sherlock - lest I be killed by the Phantom of the Promenade before having a fighting chance - and I have to find a dress and so on. Or I'll just be turned away at the door and the inevitable poor sap who ignores the all-caps warning will die."

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"Phantom of the Promenade," he snorts. "What will this place come up with next."

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"If it's anything sillier than a prom ghost I fear that will be its actual weapon, it will silly people to death," snorts Juliet.

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Giles laughs.

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Bella studies through her study hall and then attends her classes and after school, instead of going to the library again straightaway, she swings by the student council and asks who is organizing prom.

Sally Williams is organizing prom. Sally is uncomfortable about explaining the warning, but ultimately confirms that, yeah, people who go stag or even with a group of friends? They keep turning up dead. So this year they're just forbidding single attendance.

And how did they die? Bella wants to know.

Sally Williams doesn't know.

Bella goes to the library and reports to Giles. "How do I figure out what it is?" she asks, spreading her hands.
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"Well," he says, "I've managed to dig up plenty of records."

He points to a stack of newspaper clippings on the table.

"Apparently the Phantom of the Promenade's favourite methods are strangulation and drowning. In the sink in the boys' locker room."
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"Does it drown only boys there? For that matter, who does it strangle? The flyer forbids both sexes to go stag, but the prom organizer doesn't have a lot of details, she just knows there's something to be afraid of."

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"It seems to strike indiscriminately among single prom-goers," he says. "There was one girl drowned, in the same sink; no one's quite sure how or why she got there in the first place."

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"If it only drowned them, I'd wonder if it was some kind of - I dunno, despair spirit, provoking loneliness to the point of oddly specific suicide, but if it strangles people too I think it must have some more physical presence," opines Bella, "am I wrong?"

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"No, your logic is sound," he says. "I'd also suspect a literal phantom if the drownings were all we had to go on. Ghosts with the physical fortitude to strangle someone are much rarer."

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"You think it's a ghost, then, not a demon? Naively I would guess a ghost would be more likely to be preoccupied with the love lives of high school students."

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"There are a few kinds of demon who concern themselves with young lovers in various unpleasant ways, but I've never heard of one haunting a prom," he says. "And 'haunting' does seem to be the word."

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"Okay. So the ghost is substantial enough to strangle people, but is it also substantial enough that it will care if I kick it in the head?"

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"That's the question, isn't it?" he says.

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"If it doesn't care about being kicked in the head, will it care about getting torched? I don't have great wand control yet, but I think I could refrain from burning down the school, and then I'd have a chance of not needing to use squares. Or, I could go straight to the squares, but what do I wish for, what process do I disrupt to rid us of Prom Ghost?"

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"If it is a ghost," he says, "its hold on our reality is already tenuous. You might be able to simply... disperse it."

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"Mightn't it just recoalesce? It's already making trouble only during prom - once annually - as far as we know. It's pretty low-key, and it wouldn't be immediately obvious if I'd only spooked it into leaving for a relatively meaningless period of time." Pause. "Heh. Spooked."

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"The traditional way to deal with a haunting is to find out what the ghost wants and appease it somehow," he says. "But I'm hardly going to suggest you take it on a date."

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"I confess it doesn't appeal to me. Is that definitely going to be what it wants, though? Maybe it just thinks single people are depressing or it had a date who neglected it in favor of someone who went stag, or whatever - traditionally how do you find out what a ghost wants?"

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"It boils down to some combination of guess and ask," shrugs Giles.

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"So it will probably be able to talk?"

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"With any luck, yes," he says.

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"Okay. Maybe I won't even have to kill it, then."

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"Maybe not," he says, looking doubtful.

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"I will if I can't reason with it. And it's killed enough people that I will if it seems reasonable but I think it's lying. But it'd be nice if it could just calm down and not have to - disperse. It already died once, that's more than enough."

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He nods soberly.

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"I'm not sure if this place is better or worse than Shell Bell's before she fixed it up, but it's sure not a great world. I'd trade Amariah, if I thought she'd take the trade, if there was a way to trade," sighs Bella.

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"I don't think she'd take it," he says dryly.

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"I don't know, she might, as a favor. She might be better equipped to handle this world than me. Friendly spells she can make up to suit her needs on the spot! Who needs super punching ability?" Juliet shrugs. "But this is the one I got, so I'll do what I can do."

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"An admirable attitude," says Giles.

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"Well, if I'd got Amariah's world, I'd be Amariah, I think is how it works. So," she shrugs and trails off. "Have you got a book on ghosts?"

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"I have several," he says, adjusting his glasses. "I'll go get them, shall I?"

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"Yes please."

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He fetches a sizeable stack of books and sets them on the table.

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Bella sets about reading them instead of her usual work on demons-in-general. "Do most Slayers get this much reading, or do they leave the booklearning to their support teams?" she asks.

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"Most Slayers don't get this much reading," he says, "but it's more than clear that you work best on complete information."

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"I am glad that is understood, it'd be a nightmare to have to fight you on that or work around you," says Bella, humming a little.

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"Given what you did with just common knowledge about vampires, it would be a sin for me to keep you ignorant about any other supernatural threat."

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"Unfortunately, the other supernatural threats don't have allergies to such easily available materials, at least not known, but that one that has to be twisted apart - knowing that was super-useful," says Bella. "And - hm - it looks like I should expect the ghost to be someone who died hereabouts. Probably at a prom. How far back do your records go?"

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"Reasonably far," he says.

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"Is there one where they're surprised and not referring to any earlier incidents? First death-at-a-prom?"

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"Not that I've found," he says. "Yet."

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"Well, if you run across one, could be useful. I'll focus on ghosts-in-general if you'll work on identity-of-this-ghost, fair?"

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"Entirely."

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"Spiffy."

Studying happens. Sunset alarm on Juliet's phone goes off before Giles can read through all the history. Juliet goes to get Sherlock his breakfast.

(She's not obsessing - truly, she isn't - but certain things do remind her of certain other things, and she entertains wonderings about iron supplements and the productive capacities of Slayer bone marrow.

And Sherlock, being Sherlock, can probably tell what's on her mind when he gets there.)
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"Ah," he says, grinning. "Breakfast."

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"Breakfast," agrees Bella. "How goes fridge-getting? I confess I don't know how one goes about obtaining fridges, I think most places just come with them."

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"Poorly. I don't have the money to buy one and I have not yet come upon an opportunity to steal one."

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"Well, if Charlie makes too much of a fuss about the blood in ours anytime soon, we do have squares," says Bella, "and if Charlie evicts your breakfasts, that would pretty soon become an emergency, I think."

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"I don't actually know if I can starve," he says, "but I'm not inclined to test it the hard way."

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"Yeah, that sounds like a terrible idea, and unless we're going to resort to emergency squares that leaves few options. I can only sustain so much blood loss. Although I confess I do not know how much and am interested to find out."

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"Also not something I'd like to stress-test," says Sherlock, "but some experimentation is certainly in order."

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"The wound was all gone the next morning after last time, and I didn't feel dizzy anymore, but I know the Red Cross insists on waiting months between donations and I'm not sure how much of that is them being paranoid about their blood supply, how much of that is them being paranoid about avoiding lawsuits, and how much of that is information about baseline human blood-recovery ability."

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"Pay close attention to your physical condition," he suggests, "and let's not try it twice in a night."

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"That sounds like a solid plan."

Insofar as one can squirm while walking a predatory Slayerish walk, she squirms.
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"After practice, then?" he says lightly.

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"I do believe so. Oh, also, wanna come to prom with me?"

(She wants to know what he will say before hearing about Prom Ghost.)
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"Why not," he says whimsically.

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"Well, there's probably going to be a ghost there that likes to murder people who go stag," says Juliet, "so if you were going to dump me in the middle of the dance that'd be a reason why not. There's a very stern warning about it on the flyers." She has one of these in her messenger bag, folded up; she takes it out and hands it to him.

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"How charming," says Sherlock. "I solemnly swear not to dump you in the middle of the dance."

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He gets a peck on the cheek for that. "I'm gonna attempt to pacify or disperse the ghost, of course, because even an all-caps warning on the prom flyer in Sunnydale probably won't have everyone so obedient, but that might not take all night. Pity I don't know how to dance. Time was trying would've been a trip to the emergency room."

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"I could teach you," he offers whimsically.

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"You know how to dance? As well as cook and figure out facts from itty-bitty wisps of evidence and lurk like you don't exist and beat the Slayer in a fistfight half the time and dodge crossbow bolts and all this with you only technically seven years old."

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"That's about the size of it."

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"I feel so inadequate by comparison. Most of my interesting abilities were implanted overnight by possibly-divine entities, and half the rest are gifts from distant cooler versions of me."

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He laughs.

"I haven't had much to do other than teach myself impressive skills."
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"Ah, so half your waking hours were never devoured by mediocre public schooling, lucky bastard."

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"Indeed."

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"Which makes you the subjective equivalent of probably more like twelve in terms of time available for useful stuff," she says, nodding, "and therefore it is not impressive at all that you should have such a skillset. I see now."

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He laughs.

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There is the brick place with Jarvis in! Hello, Jarvis-brick-place. Bella and Sherlock are going to fight in you now.

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What fun.

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"Dancing before or after nibbles?" inquires Juliet. "...I would like nibbles to be unsupervised when they happen, Jarvis."

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"Before, I think," says Sherlock.

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"So noted," says Jarvis.

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Juliet manages a fairly able twirl based solely on her ability to move like a Slayer, but it's clear she has no dance training. "So," she says. "What do I do?" And she sidles up to Sherlock and loops her arms around his neck. "Teach me teach me."

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"Keep in mind I have never taught dance before," he says.

But despite this, he manages a credible lesson.
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He's easy to follow; she's pretty used to reading him after all the sparring, and now she's just trying to mirror, not counter. Her autopilot is no help, but she's still graceful and quick and soon they're whirling around the room and she's giggling.

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"You are a delight," Sherlock proclaims.

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She kisses him. "You're delightful," she replies, "and this is fun!"

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He kisses her right back.

"It is!"
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"And now I am tired," she says, and she pulls him down with her to the floor, where she sits, and she tucks herself into his lap and leans her head back onto his shoulder.

Rather suggestively.

(There may be squirming involved.)
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He kisses her forehead and hugs her.

"Whatever shall we do next," he murmurs.
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"Dessert?" she suggests shyly.

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"A fine plan."

He remembers where he nibbled on last time; this time he picks a matching spot on the opposite shoulder.
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The responding sound can only be described as a whimper. Her hands find where his are clasped around her and clench over them, although this time she retains enough presence of mind not to be hurtful. And she trembles.

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She is such a tasty dessert. Also, cuddly. Cuddly and warm.

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The noises she makes are much as before, whines and bits of "Sherlock" and profanity, but today, the writhing-as-though-itchy part comes just - a little - later - when it is almost time to stop.

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He can keep it going a little longer.

He does.



Not, apparently, long enough.
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"Nnnng?" pants Juliet, opening her eyes.

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"Sorry, love," he says. "Delicious as you are, I think that's enough for now."

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"...But..."

(squirm)
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"I believe there are alternate solutions to this problem," says Sherlock.

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Bella hesitates, but only momentarily, and then she nods rather more than would be necessary for mere communicative purposes.

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"Dear, dear Juliet," he murmurs, and kisses her.

Alternate solutions ensue.
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Dear, dear Juliet is restored to her happy place. Happily.

"Mmmmm," she sighs, snuggling up.
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"I concur," says Sherlock, cuddling her.

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"Thank you for stopping." Pause. "Even though I objected at the time, thanks."

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"I believe preserving your health at the expense of your immediate satisfaction favours both your priorities and mine."

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"Yes. And slightly-less-immediate satisfaction was haaaad," she sighs. (Snuggle snuggle snuggle.)

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Grinning, he hugs her some more.

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Some combination of blood loss, afterglow, and snuggly comfort induces Bella to fall into a doze after a few minutes.

And begin speaking nonsense.

"White moon fuzz swim."
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...That is adorable.

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It will go on being just that adorable for as long as he doesn't wake her up.

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Well, he is not going to wake her up on purpose.

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Bella sleeps straight through the night and wakes up at six-thirty, puzzled. "...Did I fall asleep?"

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"Yes you did," laughs Sherlock.

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"How long?" she yawns. "Feels all - morning-y." (Snuggle snuggle.)

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"How astute of you. It's half six."

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"Does that mean half past or half an hour in advance of?"

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"Half past."

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"Did you just lie there holding me all night long?" she marvels. "That's sweet - aaaaand Charlie is going to be frantic if he wasn't out working all night." She disentangles herself and reaches for her phone. It is dead; it has been for hours. "Fuck."

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"Sorry," says Sherlock. "I suppose I should've thought of that."

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"It's okay, I'll tell him I'm fine, it'll blow over. Jarvis, are you by any chance hooked up to a phone line...?"

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"Yes I am."

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She rattles off her dad's cell and his landline. "Can you call the landline first, and if he doesn't pick up, the cell?"

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"Certainly," he says, and tries the landline.

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Charlie answers after the first ring. "Hello?"

"Dad! You're home, good. It's me. I wound up crashing at Sherlock's and my phone was dead, I'm so sorry. I'm fine, everything is fine, please tell me Sunnydale isn't crawling with cops looking for a missing person?"

Charlie's response is a sigh of utmost relief. "Bells. Oh lord, Bells, you scared me. No. No cops looking for a missing person. I know there's - things, going on, cops might make it worse even if you had it under control to start, I was going to call the school and see if you showed up before jumping to assuming you were in something bad."

"I will be showing up to school, at the usual time," Bella promises.

"There will be no more crashing at Sherlock's," Charlie says.

"I'll see you this evening," Bella says instead of agreeing. "Or right around sunset when I stop at the house if you're there then. Bye, Dad!"

"Bells -"

Bella makes a cut it gesture at the nearest camera.
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The call ends.

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"Thanks, Jarvis," says Bella. She peers down at herself. "Mmm, possible I should stop at home for a change of clothes. Bloodstain's not obvious on black, but it's not totally invisible, either... I should take my shirt off first in the future," she concludes.

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"An excellent plan."

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She kisses him. "I think six-thirty has the sun up already so you can't walk me home, doesn't it. I'll see you tonight."

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"It does indeed. See you tonight, then."

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Bella kisses him again, and goes up and out and home for a new outfit - Charlie has gone ahead and gone to work by the time she gets there - and to the morgue and to school.

"Sherlock's in for prom," Bella tells Giles at study hall. "Any progress on the identity of Prom Ghost?"
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"Unfortunately, no," he says. "Or rather, I've had a few leads, and none of them have amounted to anything so far."

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"Do tell?"

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He shakes his head. "Articles about suspicious prom deaths that didn't mention a pattern, but turned out to have come after one that did."

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"Geez, how far back does this thing go? How old is the school?"

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"The school is not much younger than the town," he says. "The articles I'm looking at now are from the 1950s."

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"That's a serious body count," says Bella, shaking her head.

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"Yes."

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"Doesn't anyone besides Slayers ever address these things? Is this strong evidence against the going-to-prom-with-the-ghost-or-whatever-would-help hypothesis since a non-Slayer could've theoretically done that anytime in the last six or seven or howevermany decades?"

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"Not strong evidence," he says. "You're forgtting the longstanding traditions of denial."

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"I was thinking, a target," she says. "Somebody in the middle of being strangled, uses their last breath productively. Maybe I'm overestimating the average high school student."

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"For all we know," he says, "the ghost approaches its victims by asking them out, and this is what happens when they turn him or her down."

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"And it's not impressed if they try to change their minds."

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"Apparently not."

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"Did it only kill actually single people? Did it ever miss and get someone whose date wasn't acting datelike or was off in the bathroom or something?"

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"There was one case where a couple had a very public argument, the fellow stormed off to the toilet, and he drowned in the sink like everyone else."

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"That explains the warning about not breaking up in the middle of the dance," Bella nods.

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"Yes. There were a few more like it, but I mention this one because the surviving half of the couple still identified herself as his girlfriend afterward."

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"I wish I knew what to make of that."

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Giles shrugs.

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Bella studies ghosts. She comes back after school and studies ghosts some more.

She goes home forty-five minutes early, though, so she can do some further notetaking in the privacy of her room.

And at the usual time, she meets Sherlock bearing a jar of breakfast.
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"Hello, love," he says. "Did you finish that argument with your father about crashing at my place?"

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"I told him I promised not to do anything needlessly reckless, to be more careful about keeping my phone charged, and to call if I'm not going to be home before eleven p.m. or 'borrow your phone' to do it if mine dies," she says. "And I think it would probably be a good idea if I refrained from not-being-home-before-eleven for at least a couple of weeks, especially so I haven't burned out his tolerance by the time prom rolls around."

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"A reasonable compromise. If you fall asleep again, I will wake you up."

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"Thanks. Sweet though it was, it will apparently not be practical to repeat with any regularity while I have a Charlie to placate."

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He laughs and kisses her cheek.

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"I do hope to go on having a Charlie, but perhaps my eighteenth birthday is magical in some way and I will no longer find placating him necessary after that time."

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He laughs again.

"I doubt it."
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"Well, if nothing else, when I'm eighteen I can threaten to move out. Technically all I could do right now would be go back to Renée, and you got less portable recently."

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"I did, at that."

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"I wanna go to L.A. or a suburb again this weekend, en masque, and spread around a little more pacifying terror. Are we out of known targets at this point?"

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"We are not!"

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"Oh good!" she laughs. "How long would it take to go through the section of your rolodex labeled 'in need of Slaying', anyway?"

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"It is continually expanding," he says. "I imagine it will be a while."

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"Are you going to L.A. when I'm not looking and scouting for this purpose?"

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"Of course."

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"How do you get there? I see you every day, it's too long to walk there and back overnight. Is there a train or something?"

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"Bus," he says succinctly.

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"I appreciate it," Bella says.

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"I am glad you do."

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"How do you find these places? Just wander around until somebody pegs you for a vampire and invites you home for a game of kitten poker?"

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"There is a little more subtlety involved," he says dryly.

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"Wander around until someone pegs you for a vampire and falls into step and you notice they smell demonic and then you talk in code for fifteen minutes and then kitten poker?"

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"Wander around until I notice a demon, follow them home, repeat."

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"Ah. No invitations at all. Doesn't that present a problem for a vampire?"

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"A lack of invitation will prevent me from entering the home of a living human. I don't usually need to enter the place, and when I do there is rarely a human living there."

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"Oh, I didn't realize it was only humans. Does that mean anybody can just walk into the brick place since it's just you and Jarvis there?"

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"It might," he says. "But Jarvis would notice."

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"I'm sure he'd notice, but what would he be able to do about it?"

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"He could tell me," says Sherlock.

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"If you're out - say, in L.A. - that doesn't help much."

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"What do you propose we do about this?"

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"I don't have an idea, at least not yet."

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"If you think of something, do let me know."

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"Well, you could cover the exterior of the place with crosses, although that might make it unpleasant for even you to live in and if you overdid it you'd attract extra attention on that basis. Did Tony put in exterior cameras? If he did Jarvis can tell whether someone coming is you or not and turn on sunshiney lights or not on that basis." She shrugs. "Maybe I'm worrying too much, there aren't many vampires left in Sunnydale now that I've been here a while."

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"And intruders are by no means guaranteed to be vampires."

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"Yes," agrees Bella, "but non-vampire intruders cannot learn your species solely by their ability to walk into your house."

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"I suppose not."

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"I'll mull it over, if I come up with anything more generally applicable - hm, I don't suppose standard Jarvis installations come with artillery or anything?"

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"No."

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"If we have more problems than we've had we could consider conjuring some for him."

And here is Jarvis. "Hey, Jarvis, since pretty much the entirety of Sunnydale is not such a great neighborhood, if the situation ever seems to call for it would you have strong feelings either way about being armed?"
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"Not strong feelings, no."

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"Noted."

Sparring happens. Bella's winning slightly more than half the time, now, and she's making smaller and smaller tweaks each time she pauses to edit.

When she tires out, she waits until she has Sherlock in a convenient pinned position and just doesn't quit with the victory kisses until their entire pose has melded into a snuggle instead of a pin.
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"I detect a change in interest," Sherlock observes.

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"Aren't you observant?"

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"I like to think so," he says. "Is it time for dessert?"

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"Scientific dessert," she says, nodding and leaning her head over to let him at the location whence dessert.

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Mmmm. Dessert. Snuggly dessert. (It's the best kind.)

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Sherlock is now two for three on rendering... alternative solutions... unnecessary.

But that hardly precludes them, now, does it? Especially since she can't exactly bite him back to any desired effect.
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Ooh. Highly logical, that.

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She's nothing if not that.

(But she does conscientiously ensure that they're all done and dressed and so on sufficiently in advance of eleven for her to make her new curfew.)
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And then Sherlock kisses her goodnight, and off she goes.

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The next day, Bella shows up in study hall as usual. "Hey Giles. Progress on Prom Ghost? Do the records actually go back to seventeen-thirty-two and we should split them up?"

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"I think I might have found her," he says. "A case in 1920 of a young woman who was both strangled and drowned, and unlike the rest, there was a living suspect."

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"Who were they?" she asks.

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"Minnie Huff and yet-unnamed boyfriend, possibly former at the time of her murder."

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"The article doesn't name him? Maybe there's one from a later paper after a trial that does?" Bella suggests.

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"I believe at the time of publication he had not yet been identified. I haven't yet found him anywhere else, but I'll keep looking."

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"Okay. Should we split up the archives? Prom's in four weeks."

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"All right," he says after a moment's consideration.

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She helps herself to some newspapers and begins skimming through them, but she hasn't found anything useful by the time she has to go on to her next class.

"I'm not coming after school," she calls over her shoulder as she goes, "I got invited on a dress-buying expedition, so don't assume I got eaten when I don't show."

After school, Bella goes with her school acquaintances with whom she maintains a shallow sort of friendship to purchase dresses.

To her great surprise, she finds one she really likes. It's indigo, almost the same color as her mask, and it's knee-length and twirly enough not to be too much of a hindrance if she has to physically fight the ghost. It has matching shoes with pokey heels, which she can now actually walk in given new preternatural balance, and which strap on snugly enough that she could probably stake a vampire with her footwear in this getup if the heels are wood under all the indigo lacquer.

It's not on sale, but she buys it anyway. It fits.

It's hanging near the window when Sherlock comes by for breakfast.
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"Ooh," says Sherlock. "Love the dress."

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"Thanks!" says Bella cheerfully. "I don't usually like dresses that much, but I like this one. ...Do you need a square or some cash or something to handle your prom outfit, or are you going to bet on your usual wardrobe cutting it with the door folks?"

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"I may be able to scrounge something more or less respectable," he says.

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"I should probably buy tickets at school tomorrow," muses Bella.

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"Yes, good plan."

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"Giles found the likely Prom Ghost. She died in 1920, there was a live suspect - haven't found out who yet - and she was strangled and drowned both, not just one or the other. So if you meet her, we think her name is Minnie and she's pissed off 'cause her boyfriend murdered her."

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"Noted," says Sherlock.

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"Of course, in the intervening years she's killed over sixty people, so I'm no longer particularly hopeful that she's lucid enough to be reasoned with."

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"No, indeed."

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"Why can't all the traditionally evil critters be more like you?" Bella asks rhetorically.

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"Because I am special," he asserts.

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"Yes. I don't suppose you know how to bottle it."

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"Alas," he says, "no."

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"Pity." She walks a few steps in silence, then says, "Do you have speculations as to what leads some vampires to - enter the service industry - instead of doing the sociopathic hedonism bit? Does it not occur to most of them, do you have to be in a guild or the existing bite shop employees will kill you, is it just some sort of psychological diversity much like how you're all special that is alas unbottleable...?"

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"Some combination, I think, of it not occurring to them and it seeming undignified. Or generally not appealing."

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"For that matter, there are probably enough night-shift jobs for perfectly standard gainful employment to be an option."

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He shrugs. "I have no special expertise in vampire psychology."

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"You have more than I do," she points out.

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"And yet, I cannot tell you why it is that so few of them get jobs."

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"Did you ever consider it? Getting a job?"

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"Not really," he says. "Sustained lying annoys me."

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"What would you have to lie about? I don't think applications usually have those 'are you a human' questions like online registrations for websites sometimes do."

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"At some point, something relevant would come up. Pretending I wasn't a clone was amusing; pretending I'm not a vampire would be the same at first, but I would get tired of it very quickly."

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"Fair enough." Bella muses as they walk. "I can probably keep living with Charlie for a good long time, but if anything - supernatural or otherwise - happens to him, or if I ever just plain don't want to live with my dad anymore because I have somehow made it to age twenty-seven and it's getting old, I wonder how Slaying and a job would interact. I'm thinking not so well. School I don't care about cutting in an emergency even if I haven't had to yet. If I wound up doing that with a job they could fire me."

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"Alas that we can't connect me to my inheritance and solve all these petty problems."

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"The issue being that you were enough of a public figure that you'd get attention if you showed up and demanded it? Or you don't think they'd give it to you? I mean, you do still look like yourself."

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"It would have been too upsetting at first, and after all this time not only am I no longer quite sure where the money has gone, I am fairly sure I will be accused of murder if I turn up to collect it."

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Bella winces. "Eegh. Maybe Jarvis can just do computery stuff and steal it for you. It ought to be yours anyway."

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"I'll ask."

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"And then you can get me a corsage," she says lightly.

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"Ah, romance."

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She kisses his cheek. "It's not strictly necessary, but."

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"If you would like a corsage, then you shall have a corsage."

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"I would only like a not-stolen corsage," she clarifies. "So, only if you can afford it or come to be able to afford it."

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"Noted."

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Here is the brick place. Bella designates the first hour of her time as playing-with-fire time. She can reliably contain the blaze as long as she's not too distracted by anything more than conversation, and she keeps it in midair so if she does lose it it will vanish before touching any surfaces they would not like torched. After this hour, sparring!

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Sparring.

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Also victory kisses that, after tiredness is achieved, melt pretty smoothly into other things.

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He does love those other things.

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Oh, and so does she, she really really does.

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Good. That is the ideal condition.

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She checks the time, discovers it it ten-forty-five, and hastens home after one searing farewell kiss.