Author's Note: Another one-off exemption from parodying Buffy episode titles. But the title fit so perfectly I couldn't have used anything else.

Disclaimer: Buffy characters belong to Joss, Veronica Mars to Rob, and the plotline to me.

X X X X X

Of course, by "pleasant conversation" I mean that that's what it was from Drusilla's point of view. From my point of view it was downright terrifying.

But, since it ended up with me not dead, severely injured, soulless, or Drusilla's new doll, I'm not about to complain too loudly.

Observe: At no time does the soul leave the body.

So how did this come about? Let me give you some background.

After the meeting of the Logan Echolls Magical Creature Coffee Hour broke up, we talked for a few minutes. I wasn't quite sure how to handle this, yet. He was still very much the Obligatory Psychotic Jackass a lot of the time, but living in Sunnydale and knowing about "those who hunt the night" had sobered him up slightly.

Plus, it seemed to have activated his protective instincts. Logan has a strong desire to keep those he genuinely cares about safe.

But, at this point, I was two years older than he was, in mind if not body.

This, fortunately, was something I could let ride for the moment. I'd leave it up to Logan.

After we parted ways, I headed off to the public library. First I spent an hour or so doing homework – this weekend, no special projects, and midterms happened after Christmas break – and then I did some digging in the microfilm section, and Lexis-nexis, for any potential extra leads to show that Aaron Echolls had killed Lilly, and Abel Koontz hadn't.

Not like I hadn't gone over the local press with a fine-tooth comb, but there was something in an alternative LA weekly from a few years ago that looked promising. (In short, Holly Takamura, a bit player in Road to Dead, had claimed to have had an affair with Aaron that turned nasty when it turned out she was recording the affair. He stopped well short of killing her, but then, he'd apparently been able to get the tape, so all he'd done was trash the place and shoved her into a wall. Definitely up Aaron's alley, and worth looking into.)

The library closed at 5 PM, and it was starting to get dark, so I decided to head home. Dad was actually doing some rare pro bono work, tracking down a deadbeat dad who'd been reported to be heading towards Sunnydale, so he wasn't likely to be either at the office or home.

Let's hope Dad catches him before the vampires do.

I was driving by the office on the way back to the apartment when I saw the light on inside.

Did I keep driving? Maybe call the cops? (Excuse me while I laugh at the latter suggestion. This version of Sunnydale's police was headed by Don Lamb. Pretty much the textbook definition of the blind leading the blind.)

Of course not. I decided to see if someone was breaking into Dad's office. (Not ridiculous. I could think of a handful of people who might be interested in what's in Dad's files. Myself more than occasionally included.)

I am, however, not that reckless. Running off half-cocked into a semi-darkened office? Usually a good way to get yourself hit over the head. And I'm not trying to break Giles' record for the four-minute concussion. So I walked up cautiously to the office door.

Which had not been opened with a key. It was hanging slightly open, and there was a nice groove in the doorframe where the door had clearly been yanked open with brute physical strength.

Keith Mars had raised no fools. If something strong enough to forcibly open a locked and fairly heavy door was inside Mars Investigations, little Veronica was staying outside.

I patted my pocket to be sure I had my holy water pistol – not that it would do me any good if, say, a Polgara demon was inside, but it was considerably better than nothing in this town. (More and more I was thinking that a real gun would be even handier. I wasn't exactly eager to test my theory about kneecapping a vampire, but it would probably be more help than a holy water pistol against anything but vampires.)

With my right hand on the gun, I took a couple of steps backwards towards the street and pulled out my cell phone. I'd just finished dialing and pressing send when I felt a hand grab my shoulder from behind and grab it hard enough that it hurt. "Naughty alien!" it said. "Someone might interrupt!"

Drusilla, of course. She went on, "I was just about to leave and here you come. If I didn't know better I'd say it was fate. But of course, it can't be fate."

She hadn't actually knocked the phone from my hand. "Drusilla!" I said. "Fancy meeting you here in front of my father's office."

"It's not fancy at all; it's actually rather plain. Would you like to go inside?"

"Do I have a choice?" I said. She hadn't killed me yet. That was a good thing. The longer I stayed not dead, the more chance there was for the person on the other end of the phone to come help me.

"There are always choices," she said. "You can like this one or not like it. That's a choice, isn't it?"

I got it. "But we're going inside either way."

She took her hand off my shoulder long enough to clap her hands and say, with a demented giggle, "You're a smart Martian! Now come along." And with that, she pushed me back towards the office, where I opened the door just in time to avoid being smashed into it. Along the way, I also dropped the phone.

"I can't walk through walls," I said as we went inside.

"You can't? Pity, that. I think I used to be able to. Or maybe I just knocked them down. It really amounts to the same thing in the end, you know. Now come, sit." And she shoved me in the direction of the couch. I figured I could stay standing, but that that would probably do nothing more than irritate her.

And since at the moment she didn't seem inclined to slaughter me bloodily, I thought that maybe ticking her off? Not the best way to guarantee my long-term survival.

So I sat down at one end. She sat down at the other. At least she didn't try to take the seat right next to me. Yes, I know it was vampire Willow who liked to snuggle, but Drusilla's affections defined the word "mercurial."

As an added plus, she had her human face on, not her game face.

We sat there for a minute or so while she studied me as though she were a birdwatcher and I was a spotted monarch warbler, not seen since 1923. (No, I don't know if there's actually such a thing as a spotted monarch warbler.)

Finally she said, "Would you care for some tea?"

I looked around and didn't see any, so I said, "No thank you."

"Good. I don't seem to have brought any with me and all you have is that nasty bean." After a second, she said, "I hate the bean," as though coffee in the past had tortured Spike and burned her dolls and she was looking forward to the chance to exact her bloody revenge.

I didn't answer her. "You're very interesting," she finally said.

Right up there with "Spike gets bored" in the list of top ten things you don't want to have happen in Sunnydale? "Drusilla thinks you're interesting." ("Buffy has a birthday" is number one.)

I decided to play it safe and say nothing. "Do you want to know why I think you're interesting?" she said almost shyly.

Hell, no. I'd rather try to cross a busy interstate during rush hour, blindfolded.

Somehow I had the impression she might not want to hear that answer, so I said, "Sure. Why do you think I'm interesting?"

"It's the same reason you frighten me, it is. You're like a book with no pages."

"Useful for writing in?" I asked.

"I wouldn't want to write in you. My pen is out of ink." I prayed it didn't occur to her to use blood instead. "You're not there. I can see you and hear and –" she sniffed – "smell you, but I can't feel you."

"So you think I could have walked through that wall if I'd wanted to?"

"No, silly," she said. "My hand touched your shoulder. I can feel you, but I can't feel you. And my eyes wouldn't work on you, either. Do you think I have pretty eyes?"

You're a Martian. You don't belong here, on this world."

And that was closer to the truth than I was comfortable with. Of course, I was sitting next to Drusilla on a couch, so my being mentally comfortable was already kind of well over the horizon.

"So all this was to explain why you're going to kill me?"

"Oh, no. I can't kill you. I don't know what would happen if I killed you. I can't see with you in my way, but I don't know who's behind you. You're chaos, you are. You're chaos and you're a Martian and you're the fog on my glasses. And I don't even wear glasses. Have you ever read David Eddings?"

A turn that sharp needs a guard rail. It took me a second to catch up mentally; I was only somewhat sure I understood what she was talking about, except for the part about me not belonging here.

In any event, while I'd vaguely heard of Eddings, I'd never read him, and said as much to Drusilla. "Oooh. You must, you really must. He's very easy to read; all his stories are just the same, and everyone tells everyone else to be nice. I like it when people are nice. Don't you?"

"Depends. Does your definition of nice mean eating people?"

"I don't eat people, my Martian; I drink their blood but I leave the bones for the rats and the vultures. They need to eat just like the rest of us."

Terrific. An ecologically conscious vampire. I'd say only in California, but Drusilla was just visiting. "That is – nice," I finally managed to choke out.

"You, however, are not nice," she said a bit sharply. "You've been a bad Martian, burning my Spike like that."

Well, the cat was out of that bag. I hadn't really thought that my holy water pistol would stay secret forever. Would've been nice if Spike and Drusilla didn't know about it, but that particular secret was minor in the larger scheme of things. "He was about to attack someone," I said.

Drusilla said, puzzled, "But he wasn't going to hurt them, you know; he was going to give them eternal life."

"And from your perspective, I can see why you'd think that was a good thing," I said. "But from mine?"

"You don't want to live forever?" she asked, as if she couldn't possibly understand why anyone wouldn't.

"I wouldn't mind," I said. "I just don't want to use your method of bringing it about. No offense," I said, remembering how she seemed to appreciate the courtesies.

"I'm not going to make you like me or like my Spike," she said. "A Martian vampire? No, that would never do. And anyway your blood probably wouldn't taste very good. Like red sand or something."

That made me relax slightly. She wasn't going to kill me or make me a vampire. That didn't mean that anyone else was off-limits, and it didn't rule out her doing something else incredibly insane, which is why I stress the "slightly" more than the "relaxed."

I was also beginning to wonder what had happened to the cavalry. Of course, I was probably having a twisted perception of how long this was taking as well. (Besides "too," which was technically accurate but not particularly helpful.)

"Well, thank you for informing me," I said.

Another almost shy grin. "You're very welcome. And quite civilized. Etiquette is so important. Don't you think so?"

"I always have," I said. "So, what about David Eddings?"

Drusilla seemed puzzled for a second. "Were we talking about him? Now I remember. We were. I thought it might have been a dream I had once but I never would have dreamed you, Martian. Elenium and Tamuli, they're the ones you have to read. The main character is a forty-year old knight. He's a lot like you, you know."

Despite myself – "How?"

"You're both Anakha, and Anakha frightens the stars and the entrails and the bones and the cards. They can't see him, just like I can't see you."

Okay, I thought I was getting it now, though I suppose I'd have to skim through Eddings to be sure.

Drusilla had mental powers -- mostly the gift of prophecy, from what I'd been able to sense, but she clearly had some kind of low-level ability to --

Read people.

("It's not Daddy. It's never Daddy.")

I don't want to call it telepathy, maybe it was just a low-grade empathy, but the crucial thing is, whatever it was, I was immune to it.

And that wasn't the important thing.

She couldn't predict what I would do.

I was beyond unpredictable. I was nonpredictable.

And if Drusilla couldn't foresee what I could do, no one could.

I didn't show up in "the stars and the entrails and the bones and the cards." And she was afraid of what might happen if she shoved me out of the way so she could see what was behind me.

My basic immunity to magic had just developed a whole new wrinkle. This had Cordelia's layers beat all to hell.

And it was all because I didn't belong here.

Ethan Rayne would love me. Assuming he knew of my existence.

"I get it now," I said. "You can't see me now, and you can't see me then, either."

She clapped her hands. "She's got it, she's got it!"

"I do," I said. "So why did you tell me?"

"I wanted to see you up close. I've never seen a Martian before except on TV, and they're not real. But you're real. You're very real. But you shouldn't be here and there's nothing on the slide and the scientists are starting to get cross."

"That's it? No plot? No threats?" So she'd done all of this just to get a chance to study me up close?

"Do you want one?" she asked.

"No. Thank you."

"You're very welcome," she said, standing up. "She's coming." She grabbed my arm and half-dragged me outside.

Right then the cavalry arrived. Buffy came running up the street and screeched to a halt when Drusilla put her game face on and made as though she was going to bite my neck. "Back!" she said. "Or her warmth goes away."

She whispered in my ear, "You're safe. I promised you."

"What do you want, Drusilla?" Buffy said.

"To fight later. Now isn't the right time."

"I'm sure you think so. Let her go."

When Buffy took a step forward, Drusilla said, "I will do it, you know." Then to me sotto voce: "Don't I lie beautifully?"

"You're an artist," I said.

"Why, thank you." Slowly, she began pulling me down the street. Buffy followed. My heart was racing.

When we got to a manhole, she suddenly shoved me forward, picked up the cover and said, "Catch," to Buffy, before jumping in.

The cover sailed over my head. By the time I could look up, it was clattering to the pavement and Buffy was helping me to my feet.

"What the hell was that all about?" she said as we walked back to the office.

"I'll fill you in in a second," I said, breathing heavily. "But first I have to get the phone and call my father."

I was breathing even harder by now. What was going on? I felt like I was going to pass out. I wanted to run. I had to get the phone. My chest hurt.

"You need to sit down," Buffy said.

Sounded like a good idea.

X X X X X

I was having a panic attack. If you hadn't figured that out yet. Buffy recovered my phone and called Dad, who let Lamb take credit for the deadbeat dad and broke land speed records getting down to the office. He called in a favor to get someone to repair the door (Sunday evening, quite a feat) and then he drove me and Buffy home.

He could see I was shaken, even if he didn't quite know why, so he let me have the rest of the evening criticism-free.

I needed it. What Drusilla had said stayed with me for quite a while:

I was the joker in the deck. "The fly in the ointment, Hans. The monkey in the wrench." The unexpected obstacle in the road.

In other words, she was right: I was an alien here.

A true Martian Manhunter.