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SUMMARY: What do cats, Poptarts and boxes have to do with Fred's relationship? A whole lot, actually.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Written for the Buffy and Angel Lyric Wheel. Thanks to Wendy for the lyrics to "Hotel California" (found at the end). Set between Supersymmetry and Cavalry. Spoilers are present through Supersymmetry.
***
"Cats, Poptarts and Boxes" By Dana Woods (c) 2003
You used to think about very little other than physics. Now you think of physics very little, though you do your best to apply it to whatever conundrum you're facing, and you like to believe that it gives you an edge that sometimes surpasses even Wesley's ability to extrapolate from the mystical chaos.
Did that make sense? you wonder. Then you shrug, because these are your own thoughts, and in your own mind you don't have to worry about anyone else understanding what you mean.
As you slip two Poptarts into the toaster in the kitchenette behind the lobby, you absently ponder Scrodinger's cat paradox; the toaster isn't the most reliable, and there's no way of telling whether your Poptarts will be nicely toasted or steadfastly uncooked when the toasting cycle is done.
A rueful grin pulls at your lips. Lately, every armchair physicist or pseudo-intellectual knows about that Schrodinger's cat. In a way, it's somewhat passé for you to be thinking of it, but you can't help doing so. It is topic that you consider when you are the least sure and safe, because no matter what else is falling apart around you, you always still feel awed that the cat is both dead and alive according to quantum law. Actually, you spent so much time pondering that cat during your sophomore year in high school, when you were deemed too much of a nerd to be of any kind of interest to anyone, that you eventually named him Tidbit.
The first time you realized that superposition is eventually lost in that paradox, and considered the fact that you could open the box and find poor Tidbit dead, you cried just a little. Not that you ever told anyone that. They'd find it rather silly, despite the fact that Schrodinger himself once said that he wished he'd never met that damn cat. Of course, your contemporaries--former contemporaries--would say that Schrodinger wasn't nearly so fanciful about it, and simply meant that he wished he'd never invited such a paradox into his mind.
Once you got over the grief your natural sense of humor kicked in, and the next time you set Tidbit in that box and prepared to close the lid, you gave him a wide smile and told him, "You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave, kitty-cat."
This is still hilarious, and you chuckle uncontrollably before the Poptarts spring upwards from the toaster slots, their state of superposition lost when you note that they've indeed been warmed up. You pull them onto a plate, quickly and with only the tips of your fingers so as to avoid burning yourself. Do heated Poptarts equal dead Tidbit or live Tidbit? you wonder before you can help yourself, and the hand holding the plate starts to tremble.
You decide that you need a new topic to distract yourself with, since physics has the habit lately of leading you down too many dark paths. Like the fact that you've decided hot Poptarts mean Tidbit is dead. Or the fact that you helped kill your college physics professor.
Your mind wanders through options as your body wanders up the stairs of the Hyperion to your room. You're not very successful in your search, as most of what is happening around you is rife with its own dark paths.
The Poptarts are consumed on your bed, where you sit in a cross-legged position that used to be known as Indian-style before political correctness came into being. Extra carefully, you bring the toaster pastry to your mouth, trying to prevent the crumbs from going anywhere other than into the hand that you have cupped under your chin. All ideas for a distracting topic of thought flee your head for good when you recall that Charles has, for all intents and purposes, stopped sleeping in this bed. More often than not, he "accidentally" falls asleep elsewhere. Like the hideously uncomfortable sofa in the lobby that no one who lives at the hotel would voluntarily sleep on.
The perks of unimpeded crumbage don't outweigh the drawbacks of Charleslessness, you decide, frowning. In fact, you go on to think as you continue to carefully catch your crumbs, you have yet to find one perk that does. Except, perhaps, not waking up next to a face that reminds you of what you were willing to do to sate your anger and need for revenge, of what you let Charles do instead.
Everything goes downhill from there. Finishing your Poptarts, you flop back onto the bed that is too large now that it's practically yours alone, and remember that whole sordid experience. You waiver between feeling relieved and feeling angry when you think of what Charles did on your behalf. There is a similar vacillation when you try to decide if Wesley's willingness to let you go through with it, after his subtle dissuasions fell on your very deaf ears, was good or bad. However, you finally come to the conclusion that the Wesley thing was neither good nor bad; it just was. You can never have such equanimity of thought when it comes to Charles, though.
The fact that you might, just might, think less of him for killing Professor Seidel causes you to flinch. That is the highest form of hypocrisy you've ever heard of, since you'd been perfectly willing to kill the man. Still, that pesky thought persists in bursting into your noggin with the same expected unexpectedness of the toaster delivering your Poptarts.
Then there are the times when, in some perverse way, you feel cheated by Charles' action that night. You want to cry at those times. Because you know how dearly it cost him to grab hold of Seidel's head and twist it so far around that he ceased to live. Because you know that he willingly paid that price solely so that it wouldn't cost you anything.
There was no possibility of a good ending once you opened that portal. You were doing it. Sending Seidel to his death. Instead Charles did it. Snapped Seidel's neck. In the back of your mind, you had convinced yourself that none of it would matter much, but then the deed was done and shock brought you back to your senses. You have learned that murder taints everything even remotely associated with it. Or maybe that's just your experience.
You wish that you could get Angel's take on the subject, but he doesn't know the truth of what happened while he was trying to kill that hard-to- kill demon. Even if he did, though, you wouldn't bring it up because then you'd have to talk about it. The moment Seidel died, and you met Charles' eyes, you decided that there would be no talking about this.
You want to think about where all of this has left your relationship even less than you want to talk about Seidel's murder. So you have thrown yourself into researching the latest evil and when thoughts of your relationship try to invade, you tell yourself that you haven't the *time* to think about it. Meanwhile, you wrote and researched "Supersymmetry & P- Dimensional Subspace"-- the paper that lead to you finding out about Seidel- -in the midst of the whole Connor/Angel/Holtz debacle, and did the revisions and rewrites the Journal required while you were struggling to hold the fort down after Angel and Cordelia's disappearances. Lately, you've been telling yourself truckloads of hooey.
But under it all, you know the truth. Schrodinger's boxes are supposed to be made of lead or steel. But yours is crafted of denial and avoidance. It's only a matter of time before the stench of death or the hungry meows get too noticeable to be ignored.
***
Note: Physics ain't my thing. I'm all about the math theory. I was going to have Fred switch tracks, but then it all started making a weird kind of Dana-sense. Anyway, lots of non-academic types do know about Schrodinger's cat nowadays. I'm one of them.
Schrodinger's Cat Paradox: Take one steel or lead box. Insert a Geiger counter. Insert a small amount of a radioactive substance. Make sure it is so small that in one hour one of the atoms *may* decay. If it *does* decay, then the Geiger counter triggers the fall of a hammer, which breaks a container of cyanide and the cat dies instantly. Go watch Angel or Buffy for an hour. Come back. You do not know whether or not the atom has decayed and triggered the release of the cyanide. Therefore, you do not know whether the cat is dead or alive. According to quantum law, it is *both*. Yep, that's right. The cat is dead and alive at the same time. At least until you open the box and find out for sure. Methinks perhaps Schrodinger was a dog person.
***
Hotel California the Eagles ©1976
On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair Warm smell of colitas rising up through the air Up ahead in the darkness, I saw a shimmering light My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim I had to stop for the night
There she stood in the doorway; I heard the mission bell And I was thinking to myself, 'This could be heaven or this could be hell' Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way There were voices down the corridor, I thought I heard them say....
Welcome to the Hotel California Such a lovely place (such a lovely face) Plenty of room at the Hotel California Any time of year you can find it here
Her mind is Tiffany-twisted, she got the Mercedes bends She got a lot of pretty pretty boys, that she calls friends How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat, Some dance to remember, some dance to forget
So I called up the Captain, 'Please bring me my wine' He said 'we haven't had that spirit here since nineteen sixty-nine And still those voices are calling from far away, Wake you up in the middle of the night Just to hear them say....
Welcome to the Hotel California Such a lovely place (such a lovely face) They livin' it up at the Hotel California What a nice surprise, bring your alibis
Mirrors on the ceiling, The pink champagne on ice And she said 'we are all just prisoners here, of our own device' And in the master's chambers, They gathered for the feast They stab it with their steely knives But they just can't kill the beast
Last thing I remember, I was Running for the door I had to find the passage back To the place I was before 'Relax' said the night man, 'We are programmed to receive, You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave'
SUMMARY: What do cats, Poptarts and boxes have to do with Fred's relationship? A whole lot, actually.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Written for the Buffy and Angel Lyric Wheel. Thanks to Wendy for the lyrics to "Hotel California" (found at the end). Set between Supersymmetry and Cavalry. Spoilers are present through Supersymmetry.
***
"Cats, Poptarts and Boxes" By Dana Woods (c) 2003
You used to think about very little other than physics. Now you think of physics very little, though you do your best to apply it to whatever conundrum you're facing, and you like to believe that it gives you an edge that sometimes surpasses even Wesley's ability to extrapolate from the mystical chaos.
Did that make sense? you wonder. Then you shrug, because these are your own thoughts, and in your own mind you don't have to worry about anyone else understanding what you mean.
As you slip two Poptarts into the toaster in the kitchenette behind the lobby, you absently ponder Scrodinger's cat paradox; the toaster isn't the most reliable, and there's no way of telling whether your Poptarts will be nicely toasted or steadfastly uncooked when the toasting cycle is done.
A rueful grin pulls at your lips. Lately, every armchair physicist or pseudo-intellectual knows about that Schrodinger's cat. In a way, it's somewhat passé for you to be thinking of it, but you can't help doing so. It is topic that you consider when you are the least sure and safe, because no matter what else is falling apart around you, you always still feel awed that the cat is both dead and alive according to quantum law. Actually, you spent so much time pondering that cat during your sophomore year in high school, when you were deemed too much of a nerd to be of any kind of interest to anyone, that you eventually named him Tidbit.
The first time you realized that superposition is eventually lost in that paradox, and considered the fact that you could open the box and find poor Tidbit dead, you cried just a little. Not that you ever told anyone that. They'd find it rather silly, despite the fact that Schrodinger himself once said that he wished he'd never met that damn cat. Of course, your contemporaries--former contemporaries--would say that Schrodinger wasn't nearly so fanciful about it, and simply meant that he wished he'd never invited such a paradox into his mind.
Once you got over the grief your natural sense of humor kicked in, and the next time you set Tidbit in that box and prepared to close the lid, you gave him a wide smile and told him, "You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave, kitty-cat."
This is still hilarious, and you chuckle uncontrollably before the Poptarts spring upwards from the toaster slots, their state of superposition lost when you note that they've indeed been warmed up. You pull them onto a plate, quickly and with only the tips of your fingers so as to avoid burning yourself. Do heated Poptarts equal dead Tidbit or live Tidbit? you wonder before you can help yourself, and the hand holding the plate starts to tremble.
You decide that you need a new topic to distract yourself with, since physics has the habit lately of leading you down too many dark paths. Like the fact that you've decided hot Poptarts mean Tidbit is dead. Or the fact that you helped kill your college physics professor.
Your mind wanders through options as your body wanders up the stairs of the Hyperion to your room. You're not very successful in your search, as most of what is happening around you is rife with its own dark paths.
The Poptarts are consumed on your bed, where you sit in a cross-legged position that used to be known as Indian-style before political correctness came into being. Extra carefully, you bring the toaster pastry to your mouth, trying to prevent the crumbs from going anywhere other than into the hand that you have cupped under your chin. All ideas for a distracting topic of thought flee your head for good when you recall that Charles has, for all intents and purposes, stopped sleeping in this bed. More often than not, he "accidentally" falls asleep elsewhere. Like the hideously uncomfortable sofa in the lobby that no one who lives at the hotel would voluntarily sleep on.
The perks of unimpeded crumbage don't outweigh the drawbacks of Charleslessness, you decide, frowning. In fact, you go on to think as you continue to carefully catch your crumbs, you have yet to find one perk that does. Except, perhaps, not waking up next to a face that reminds you of what you were willing to do to sate your anger and need for revenge, of what you let Charles do instead.
Everything goes downhill from there. Finishing your Poptarts, you flop back onto the bed that is too large now that it's practically yours alone, and remember that whole sordid experience. You waiver between feeling relieved and feeling angry when you think of what Charles did on your behalf. There is a similar vacillation when you try to decide if Wesley's willingness to let you go through with it, after his subtle dissuasions fell on your very deaf ears, was good or bad. However, you finally come to the conclusion that the Wesley thing was neither good nor bad; it just was. You can never have such equanimity of thought when it comes to Charles, though.
The fact that you might, just might, think less of him for killing Professor Seidel causes you to flinch. That is the highest form of hypocrisy you've ever heard of, since you'd been perfectly willing to kill the man. Still, that pesky thought persists in bursting into your noggin with the same expected unexpectedness of the toaster delivering your Poptarts.
Then there are the times when, in some perverse way, you feel cheated by Charles' action that night. You want to cry at those times. Because you know how dearly it cost him to grab hold of Seidel's head and twist it so far around that he ceased to live. Because you know that he willingly paid that price solely so that it wouldn't cost you anything.
There was no possibility of a good ending once you opened that portal. You were doing it. Sending Seidel to his death. Instead Charles did it. Snapped Seidel's neck. In the back of your mind, you had convinced yourself that none of it would matter much, but then the deed was done and shock brought you back to your senses. You have learned that murder taints everything even remotely associated with it. Or maybe that's just your experience.
You wish that you could get Angel's take on the subject, but he doesn't know the truth of what happened while he was trying to kill that hard-to- kill demon. Even if he did, though, you wouldn't bring it up because then you'd have to talk about it. The moment Seidel died, and you met Charles' eyes, you decided that there would be no talking about this.
You want to think about where all of this has left your relationship even less than you want to talk about Seidel's murder. So you have thrown yourself into researching the latest evil and when thoughts of your relationship try to invade, you tell yourself that you haven't the *time* to think about it. Meanwhile, you wrote and researched "Supersymmetry & P- Dimensional Subspace"-- the paper that lead to you finding out about Seidel- -in the midst of the whole Connor/Angel/Holtz debacle, and did the revisions and rewrites the Journal required while you were struggling to hold the fort down after Angel and Cordelia's disappearances. Lately, you've been telling yourself truckloads of hooey.
But under it all, you know the truth. Schrodinger's boxes are supposed to be made of lead or steel. But yours is crafted of denial and avoidance. It's only a matter of time before the stench of death or the hungry meows get too noticeable to be ignored.
***
Note: Physics ain't my thing. I'm all about the math theory. I was going to have Fred switch tracks, but then it all started making a weird kind of Dana-sense. Anyway, lots of non-academic types do know about Schrodinger's cat nowadays. I'm one of them.
Schrodinger's Cat Paradox: Take one steel or lead box. Insert a Geiger counter. Insert a small amount of a radioactive substance. Make sure it is so small that in one hour one of the atoms *may* decay. If it *does* decay, then the Geiger counter triggers the fall of a hammer, which breaks a container of cyanide and the cat dies instantly. Go watch Angel or Buffy for an hour. Come back. You do not know whether or not the atom has decayed and triggered the release of the cyanide. Therefore, you do not know whether the cat is dead or alive. According to quantum law, it is *both*. Yep, that's right. The cat is dead and alive at the same time. At least until you open the box and find out for sure. Methinks perhaps Schrodinger was a dog person.
***
Hotel California the Eagles ©1976
On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair Warm smell of colitas rising up through the air Up ahead in the darkness, I saw a shimmering light My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim I had to stop for the night
There she stood in the doorway; I heard the mission bell And I was thinking to myself, 'This could be heaven or this could be hell' Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way There were voices down the corridor, I thought I heard them say....
Welcome to the Hotel California Such a lovely place (such a lovely face) Plenty of room at the Hotel California Any time of year you can find it here
Her mind is Tiffany-twisted, she got the Mercedes bends She got a lot of pretty pretty boys, that she calls friends How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat, Some dance to remember, some dance to forget
So I called up the Captain, 'Please bring me my wine' He said 'we haven't had that spirit here since nineteen sixty-nine And still those voices are calling from far away, Wake you up in the middle of the night Just to hear them say....
Welcome to the Hotel California Such a lovely place (such a lovely face) They livin' it up at the Hotel California What a nice surprise, bring your alibis
Mirrors on the ceiling, The pink champagne on ice And she said 'we are all just prisoners here, of our own device' And in the master's chambers, They gathered for the feast They stab it with their steely knives But they just can't kill the beast
Last thing I remember, I was Running for the door I had to find the passage back To the place I was before 'Relax' said the night man, 'We are programmed to receive, You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave'