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Hannah,

Knowing your mother, I'm not at all surprised she decided to tell you a version of the tale of how she and your daddy fell in love filled with half-truths and well, flat out-non-truths (when I was your age, she had me convienced I'd been adopted from a group of spider monkeys). Being that you're the best, little niece on the planet, I'm writing this letter to you telling the whole story as it really happened.

As fate would have it, your mommy and daddy met at one of the most unlikeliest of places.



Two women, walking down a long, winding corridor, one speaking quickly to the other,

"But it says he was picked up for drunk and disorderly over on Tracie; why isn't this guy fighting off a hangover in the drunk tank down town?"

"Breathalyzer registered on the negative side of things." The redhead gave a brief shrug of her shoulders. "Poor guy was found going at it with a pimp."

Perfectly arched eyebrows quirked upwards. " 'Going at it'?"

"In the fist to fist capacity. Apparently our John Doe was offering to get dates for people..."

A smile formed on the blonde's lips. "And what pimp likes to have his toes stepped on?"

"Not any that I know."

They shared a laugh as they passed through a set of double doors only to end up in another long hallway.

"Wills, dealing with drunks who've decided to enter the competitive world of prostetution isn't exactly my territory. I've got a book to concentrate on -- an advance that I'm this close to returning because looking at love and romance from a scientific perspective, slowly becoming a font of no-inspiration."

Willow slowly reached out for the doorknob. "Something tells me in one second, no inspiration is not gonna be a problem any longer, Buffy."

A loud giggle emitted from the room as they entered; the two nurses standing on either side of the lean, bleached blonde man who casually sat on the examination table were practically fawning over him.

"You see this...?" he pointed to the card in his hand with disdain, "thanks to the bleeding corporate bastards of Hallmark, I'm a sodding winged baby! Does any part of me look infantile like to you ladies?" He waggled his eyebrows, lacivious grin on his lips and the nurses laughed in response. "You won't catch me in a diaper..."


Willow whispered in her friend's ear, "He thinks he's cupid." A Beat, "I want a credit on the 'Thank You' page of your next bestseller."

**

He had been in her presence for a grand total of three minutes. Three minutes and forty-nine seconds. She knew for a fact. She'd counted. And already, Dr. Buffy Summers -- consumate professional: wanted to snap his neck.

Grungy boots carelessly propped on her five-hundred dollar coffee table (cherry wood with a varnish to die for) were sure to leave scuff marks. Never mind the fact he'd completely ignored the cheery greeting she threw his way when he barged into her office; or that he'd scraped off the remains of black fingernail polish graciously brushing the flakes from his lap and onto the plush, white carpet below.

Oh. No. That was nothing compared to...

"There's no smoking in here," Buffy said as calmly as possible.

Taking a long drag off of the Marlboro Red between his fingers, he pursed his lips and blew the smoke out of his nose in perfect imitation of a dragon. "Right. Should've known you'd be one of those Nazi anti-smoking types; you know, ducks, you should put up signs -- clue a fellow in before he goes and lights one up."

Wordlessly, she pointed towards the door.

"Oh." he smiled sheepishly. "Well, that's kind of a bad spot to put one of those things, innit?" And without another word, the offending object found its self 'curtiously' rubbed out right on the shiny, cherry-wooded varnish of Buffy's beloved table.

Part of her wanted to cry. The rest wanted to see how far she could shove the clipboard handily resting on her desk, down his throat. All Buffy could manage, however, was a distressted twitch of her eye.

"Alright..." she began with a heavy sigh, "your name?"

"Cupid," he answered quickly.

"Your name?" The question was repeated without missing a beat.

"Eros." The response was equally as sharp.

"Your name?"

"The bleeding god of love," an eye roll, "are you getting this picture, pet?"

Putting down her pen, Buffy folded her arms over her chest. "I can do this all night."

Tongue curling behind his teeth he chuckled, "Best thing I've heard all day."

Emerald eyes narrowed into slits. "I'm going to kindly ask that you keep your tone with me strictly professional."

"Why?" he grinned. "My animal magnitism making you uncomfortable, luv?"

"No, it's making my skin crawl. And I'm not your 'luv'."

That elicited a snort.

"I wanna help you, but I can't do that..."

Both feet finally made it to the floor and with a serious look marring his features, he leaned forward. "You wanna help me?"

Buffy nodded. "Of course. That's what I'm here for."

"Then get me the hell outta here. You people are bollixing up my employment by keeping me locked up like a fucking prisoner!"


Smile curling on her pouty lips, Buffy pointed to herself. "Lets get one thing straight -- I am your ticket out of here. So, if you want a wardrobe that doesn't consist of hospital gown perriwinkle, I suggest you start cooperating." Pen in hand, her eyes returned to the stack of papers in front of her. "Now, your name?"

"The name..." he sighed heavily, "is Cupid. You stupid, bint."





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