I'm sure you've been able to figure out that Vicious is called "Victor" in this story. Just a touch more of realism. Of course, Ashley Spiegel is Spike. Faye and Julia will be coming in at least the next two chapters and Jet and Edward in future ones. Thank you for reading. This is my first fic, so I'll appreciate reviews of any kind.

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Like all European public transportation, the train from London (comme le train de Paris et le bateau de La Manche) to Manchester was stuffy and mildly dirty. Quitting my seat next a hysterical middle-aged woman, I greedily spent fifteen minutes in the washroom shaving and straightening my grey sportscoat and cheap polyester cravat. Remembering how I looked in then in that calcium-stained mirror (I was forty-two at the time- the year was 1995) reminds me that perhaps I should give my endearing readers a visual of their scriptor incognito. You must imagine me quite different from my brother in personality, but I am perhaps even more so in physical aspects. Although at six feet two, I rival him in height, you would not fathom us brothers, even only half. Long ago I went completely grey and I keep my somewhat long hair combed back upon my head in an old-fashioned manner. My skin is fair, my eyes are blue- my brother has been described before as "lanky" but I am, to exaggerate, emaciated.

I was anticipating with great excitement my Manchester debut- the reader must understand, I was not at the complete mercy of my successful sibling. At the time that he'd announced his engagement at American University, I'd been attending l'Université Sorbonne for two years studying psychology, literature, the French language, and political science among other eclectic subjects. I graduated with decent marks and eventually obtained a PhD in linguistics. In my exile in Paris, I made a paltry sum translating for a publisher that shall remain anonymous. I was to teach, upon the commencement of the school year, French at a wealthy private school that was also attended by Spike's daughter. Skirting what I think may be a national law, the school hired me without any education credentials, probably believing that the PhD and those three credit hours of psychology from my undergraduate years sufficiently made up for my lacking abilities as a teacher of teenaged children.

As the huge mechanical beast in which I was riding groaned and screeched to a halt (although it had seemed the entire journey that we were going at a maximum, ten miles per hour) only two hours late, (I have heard horror stories about American Amtrak) I made my way to the door, impolitely ignored the conductor's smile and instantly spotted my brother's hair in the crowd.

"Bienvenue!"

"Oh, cut it out."

"I see you're quite pleased to be in England. Is it the weather? Because I must say, it's always quite grey. England has no Côte d'Azur, but Ireland's quite green..."

"Actually, I am. Have you got a car or a cab? It's wonderful to see you."

He took neither of my two dusty and old suitcases, but held the back door of his black Porsche open for me as I tossed them in, causing satisfying damage to the upholstery.

"Porsche hated your people."

"Ha, Porsche's dead, now my people rule Porsche. Speaking of my people, you missed Julia's bat mitzvah. No, no, whatever. It was uneventful, she didn't really care."

"Ophelia wasn't Jewish, was she?"

"No, but neither was mutti. Dad was able to come. He was quite pleased, you can imagine."

My brother and I, between graduating from college and meeting each other at a Manchester train station in middle age, had been married once, respectively. Spike to a flaxen-haired Danish girl named Ophelia (Ha ha!) Andersen, I to a woman who still warms the cockles of my heart. Ophelia was an unintelligent, but mild-mannered and agreeable woman. After performing her maternal duty by giving birth to Julia Lillian (Lenore, Lee, Leigh...) Spiegel, she was consumed by one of the various feminine cancers, and was survived by her husband and, at the time of her expiration, three-year-old daughter.

What can I say about my ancienne conjoint that would do her justice? Anastasia Lafayette was one of two women I ever really loved. I met her in my last year as an undergraduate at La Sorbonne. She was, using the best word I know to describe her, mignonne. Short and slightly chubby, she was well-endowed and energetic; always a hard drinker, she brought me out of my intellectual shell and introduced me to parties, people and indulgences. All mocha skin and soft brown eyes, her hair was a particular shade of chestnut auburn; I'll forever remember the way her small brown curls bounced back into place in spite of any disturbance. We married young, but not to stave off loneliness or poverty like my mother, but out of joy and the vibrancy of youth. However, our tastes were far too different, and over time, we began to stray from one another. Our work schedules didn't overlap as we'd like and in 1977 she'd made up her mind to go to Bangladesh or some other disenfranchised Southeastern Asian nation with the American (again) Peace Corps. We divorced without malice or revenge. I saw Annie in 1983, still using my name, fat and old, but as happy and energetic as she was twenty years ago, living in Aix-en-Provence with a common-law husband.

It was quite late that night when we arrived at my brother's upscale apartment. We dropped my bags off at my new residence (I was to stay within my means at a considerably less dear apartment on the floor below that of my brother's) and made our way up the stairs to take brandy in his parlor.