Disclaimer:

Gargoyles and all related indicia, sadly, is property of Disney. 
I have no permission to use the characters, nor am I making any 
profit off of this fanfic. Sam and Max Denaro belong to Shadow 
Master, and are used with permission. "Eat the Rich" belongs to 
Aerosmith. End legalese.

**************************************

Nick: "Uh, I'm sorry, but you're not an alien or nothing, are you?"
Madison: "Does being from Denver count around here?"
--Relatively Speaking

Angela: (voiceover) "Previously, on Gargoyles..."

Sam: "Pop used to confuse the hell out of me too. I think he liked
   messing with my head. Now it's just me and Ray."
Matt: "What about your brother?"
Sam: "He... works nights too."
(Show the Quarryman helicopter lifting away from Sam's cab, "Night Shift")
--Night Shift

Madison: "If I wasn't here, someone else would talk Cody down from her 
 temper. Besides, just think what this means! There's another clan out 
 there, that we're sure of. Someone other than the thirty of us nested 
 out in the Rockies!"
--The Sky's the Limit

Elisa: "Well, according to Matt and Sarah, you did manage to fend off 
 three of Oberon's Children all by yourself, which means--"
Owen: "--that either the blood of the Third Race flows through your
 veins, or you had vast quantities of iron at your disposal. We can
 eliminate the latter possibility."
(Show Sam fending off the Weird Sisters, "Night Shift")
--Night Shift

Sarah: "What is so wrong with my coffee, anyway?"
Lex: (pouring the mug onto the wood) "This is your brain." (flips the 
 board up to show it's halfway eaten through) "This is your brain on 
 sludge. Any questions?"
Sarah: "I think I'm going to go help search." (exits)
Brooklyn: "Her coffee did *that?*"
Lex: "Not really. I switched it with some paint thinner. The real 
 stuff would have eaten all the way through."
--Night Shift

***************************************

Of Caffeine Withdrawal and Other Catastrophes
by Amanda Ohlin


January 13
Manhattan

The lock was sticking again.

Sam Denaro yanked her hood back over her head as the chilly 
wind tossed her brown-black hair about. The heavy snow had 
finally started to taper off, dying down to a few light 
flurries, but the wind was as cold as ever. Despite the hot 
coffee Sarah had talked her into before taking the subway 
home, she was still shivering. 

Aside from the coffee, the only other thing keeping her awake was 
the sound of a radio. Some idiot was blasting a radio at four in 
the morning during a snowstorm, something that Sam had never 
thought she'd be grateful for.

"I'm sick of your complaining about how many bills
 And I'm sick of all your bitching about your poodles and your 
    pills..."

Normally, she got through the series of locks with practiced 
motions. But tonight, the third lock had decided it didn't want 
to open. Sam paused, hesitating, tempted to just zap it into 
submission. But she shook away the thought. It was too late to 
deal with that weirdness. Besides, if she didn't melt the lock,
she might end up knocking the door off its hinges.

Xanatos had offered her the guest room to stay in until the weather 
blew over. But she couldn't take charity. Besides, if he really 
wanted to show some real gratitude, he'd have set up a room for 
her sister. Frustrated, she muttered the chorus through her teeth, 
agreeing with every word.

"Eat the rich
 That's only one thing that they're good for
 Eat the rich 
 Take one bite now and ask for more 
 Eat the rich
 I gotta get this off my chest
 Eat the rich
 Take one bite now and spit out the rest..."

She finally coaxed the lock to work and shoved the door open 
violently, catching it before it could hit anything. Rachel 
Denaro usually hit the sack by midnight, since she had to be 
out the door by seven to work the breakfast shift at Rosie's.
And Ray did not take well to being woken up in the middle of 
the night. Yawning, Sam shut the door, making sure to lock 
and bolt each of the locks.

The apartment wasn't much, but it was cleaner than most. That, 
Sam remembered, had been one of the things her father had 
insisted on for years. "We may live a humble life," Mario 
Denaro would say, "but we're going to live a clean life, Sammie."
Now, a year after his death, she still made sure to keep their 
cheap little apartment as clean as possible, and working.

She would have made a beeline for bed if she hadn't spotted the 
yellow Post-It stuck on the ancient coffeepot. Curious, Sam peeled 
it off and scanned Ray's small, rounded script, grinning as its 
implications struck her.

Sammie -

Eddie called around 11. He screwed something 
up with shift changes, and said not to come in 
today. Said he wouldn't dock your pay - I think 
he knew you'd kick his ass if he did. I'll see 
you in the morning.

Ray

A day off. Not only a day off, but with pay. It was unbelievable.
It was also probably not coincidental; if Xanatos had something 
to do with this, she wouldn't be surprised. Sam hoped not, but 
she wasn't stupid enough not to take advantage. She'd never had 
an actual day off from work. Trips to the hospital didn't count. 

Maybe she'd do some repair work, some cleaning. The bathroom 
sink needed some caulking, and she was going to have to ask 
Mrs. McCullough down the way to borrow her vacuum cleaner. There 
really wasn't anything she could do about the tears in the old 
couch, but duct tape would work for now. And the kitchen 
needed to be scrubbed. And it was too cold.

Sam strode over to the radiator and put her hand on it. Nothing.
"Give me a break," she muttered, and kicked it. Hard. The clang 
made her freeze, afraid that it would wake Ray, but as the 
radiator started up again, Sam relaxed. That, Ray would forgive 
her for.

She yawned again, trudging into her bedroom. Repairing and 
cleaning could wait until the next morning. Right now, she was 
too damned tired to bother.

As she flopped down on the bed, however, the light suddenly 
switched on. In a second, she was on her feet and in a defensive 
position, glaring at the tall figure illuminated by the lamp. 
"Max. What the hell are you doing here?"

Max Denaro smirked at that, folding his arms and leaning back 
against the wall. He was a few inches taller than she--about 
six foot three--and his lean frame was all muscle. As he 
frowned, one could see his resemblance to his sisters in the 
jawline and dark eyes. "Hey, Slick, I missed you too. Just 
coming for a friendly visit."

"I'll bet. A friendly break-in at four a.m." She paused. 
"Where's Ray?"

"Sleeping like a baby. I didn't wake her." Max cocked his head. 
"When did she do that to her hair?"

"Halloween, and you didn't answer my question."

Sighing, Max ran a hand through his thick black hair. "Can't 
believe she went blonde. Maybe it's me, but I swear it glows 
in the dark. And I didn't break in." He jangled a familiar set 
of keys in front of her face, pulling them away before she could 
snatch them.

"Remind me to change the locks." Sam moved so that the bed was 
between them. "You want money, pal, go somewhere else. I'm working 
two jobs here." 

Max snorted. "I don't want money. I'd go to Uncle Vito if I did. 
You should too, instead of working two jobs."

"Forget it, Max, I know where Uncle Vito's money comes from. Tell 
me what you want and get out." Then he turned, and she got a 
glimpse of the hammer pin on his jacket, glinting in the dim light. 
"Oh, I get it. This is about that little helicopter ride last night,
isn't it?" He turned a shade paler. "I knew it. Shit."

"No, look, it is and it isn't." He scowled. "Slick, I got to tell 
you something." He switched to Italian. "[They don't know I'm 
here. I came to warn you. No English.]"

She looked him up and down, but he didn't seem to be bluffing. 
"[Warn me about what?]"

Max rubbed the back of his neck nervously, sitting down on the 
edge of the bed. Sam remained standing. "[There's been a lot of 
talking about getting at garg-lovers lately. I don't know if 
they know about you, but with Ray's mouth, half the town knows 
she's with those PIT morons.]" He held his hands up to stave 
off her outburst. "[Let me finish. I heard they were making a 
list.]"

"A list? Marking the dead now?" Sam sneered. "Forget the hammer, 
why don't you just get a swastika patch while you're at it?"

He was on his feet in a moment, leaping over the bed and 
pinning her against the wall. "Shut up and listen to me, dammit! 
I shouldn't be here! If you weren't my sisters, I'd let them go 
after you with the rest of the gargoyle lovers out there."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "You've gotten better. And I know you 
don't mean that."

It was only moderately tempting to give him a little shock; after 
all, he was her kid brother. She settled for bringing her knee 
up and shoving him in the gut, just hard enough to back him off
a few steps. "If you're trying to get on my good side, Max, 
it's not working."

Muttering something under his breath, he glared at her and 
stalked across the room, starting to pace. "Look, I got into this 
to get rid of the real monsters." 

Sam bit back her tongue to stave off her arguments. _Those 
monsters saved my life tonight._ 

"I don't like this shit, but if that's what it takes..." He trailed 
off before switching back to Italian. "[Listen, I saw Ray's name on the 
list. I don't know if you were or not. I'm going to try to get them 
off, but just in case.]" He turned towards the door.

"Just in case of what?" She followed him into the living room 
as he opened the door. "[Max, please. You're my kid brother. I'm 
worried about you.]"

He stopped, his hand still on the doorknob. "Just watch your 
back, Slick. Please."

With that, he was gone.

Sam leaned against the door for a second, depressed. She re-checked
the locks, turned, and stumbled off to bed, making sure to shut her 
alarm off before falling asleep.

******

Sarah Adams gaped at the registrar. "Excuse me? Is this some kind 
of joke?"

"Is there something wrong?" The woman blinked, a gesture that 
seemed difficult underneath heavy makeup. Sarah guessed she was
probably in her fifties, although it was hard to tell beneath 
the amount of plastic surgery and layers of makeup. The hair 
was probably fake too, Sarah decided; that shade of red did 
not occur in nature.

"Oh, nothing really," Sarah answered with a false smile plastered 
on her face before adding, "It's just that the perfectly legitimate
history and English lit classes I took at U of M didn't transfer. 
Care to explain that, eh?"

"Miss Adams, the courses listed did not meet the standards of the 
New York University curriculum."

Sarah almost choked. "Didn't meet the standards?" she cried, 
seemingly oblivious to the stares she was drawing. Actually, she 
was perfectly aware that people were staring; she just didn't 
care. "All right, then, the history credits I can understand. 
But that English literature class was not beneath your blasted 
standards!"

"Miss Adams, you are not aware--"

"I'm aware that the most bloody intense and supposedly universal
Brit Lit survey course known to mankind is being rejected by 
someone who doesn't know a thing about the class. Trust me on this, 
you don't know the bloke they hired to teach us. He was dedicated 
to making sure we memorized every word, every pointless detail, 
every single opinion on Shakespeare's plays!" She paused for 
breath. "And I managed to get halfway decent marks in that class
even though I hate lit classes!"

There was no reaction on the registrar's face; evidently, she'd 
seen worse. "It does not meet our criteria," she snapped, handing
Sarah the catalog of courses. "You can pick some courses here to 
fulfill the core requirements."

Sarah snatched it away angrily. "If I knew this would be such a 
bleedin' hassle, I would've gone to Columbia in a heartbeat."

"If I were you, I would be quite happy." The registrar sniffed.
All the credits pertaining to your major have transferred except 
for those six credits. It could be worse." 

"You're right," Sarah said loudly, startling the registrar. "It 
could be worse." A wicked smile crept across her face. "I could 
have gone to your plastic surgeon."

With that, she turned on her heel and stalked off. The registrar 
choked in rage as the girl passed the students standing in line, 
haughtily striding towards the exit. 

Several of the students started clapping and cheering as she passed 
them by. It wasn't thunderous applause by any means, but Sarah held 
her head high as she shoved the door open and headed out into the 
chilly January air. Later she'd whine and moan to Lex over hot 
chocolate, but for now she'd maintain her dignity.

Technically, it *was* a standing ovation.

******

"Len! Over here!"

The cheerful greeting cut through the colorless babble of language
like a spotlight, startling the tall man standing by the baggage 
claim. Shaking himself out of his pensive thoughts, Macbeth 
glanced around before he spotted the source of the familiar voice.

Despite himself, he broke into a grin to see the small figure 
standing at the back of the line, hopping up and down and waving 
to be seen over many taller heads. Chuckling, Macbeth snagged 
his suitcase in one hand and carried it over to meet her. "Therese, 
it's good to see you, lass." He gave her a brief, friendly hug. 
"I was expecting one of those fool cab drivers holding up a sign 
with my name spelled wrong."

Therese Dell snorted at that as they broke the embrace. Macbeth 
had to bend down to accommodate the short, plump black woman; she 
was just five feet tall, and as a result he seemed to tower over 
her. "Yes, well, I figured someone should make sure you were back 
before the semester started. How was your trip?"

"Quiet and peaceful, for a change." He raised an eyebrow as they 
crossed the terminal. "Don't tell me the department truly has 
perished in my absence."

Therese smiked wryly. "Hardly." She pulled on her coat as they 
approached the exits. "But you wouldn't believe the fool they 
hired to fill in for your classes."

"If Jamison is still teaching Modern Europe," Macbeth retorted, "I 
can believe it."

"No, no. This 'visiting assistant professor' was worse than that 
blowhard." 

Macbeth chuckled as one of the taxicabs actually pulled up in 
front of them and they got in. "Dr. Dell, that is impossible."

"I thought so until I met the dolt. You don't mind stopping for 
drinks and catching up, do you?" Surprised and amused, he shook 
his head, and she turned to the driver. "Lexington and 62nd."

He settled back into the seat as the cab pulled away from the 
curb. "Must have been a horror if you want to stop for drinks."

"Len, the man actually liked faculty meetings. He prolonged them 
with his stupid questions!" Macbeth winced as she continued. 
"And for all that, I don't think he ever paid any attention to 
the important things. He barely got his students' grades in on 
time, lost several papers, even read out of the textbook for 
most of his lectures!"

Macbeth frowned. "Even for the Renaissance Amphibium?" That had 
been a course he'd been reluctant to miss out on that semester; 
it was jointly taught with the English department, and the 
professor he would have been working with was the most open- 
minded woman he'd ever met when it came to the historical 
inaccuracies of Shakespeare.

"Especially for Renaissance Amphib! Christina O'Neill almost 
killed him a few times." 

"I'd have helped her," Macbeth groaned. "How badly did he 
brainwash that class?"

Therese let out a bark of laughter as the driver blared his horn 
at the slow-moving traffic. "Most of them were too busy falling 
asleep whenever he opened his trap. I don't think there was much 
damage done in that respect."

"Then why drinks?"

She paused a moment before answering. "I hoped I'd get to wait 
to tell you this when you had alcohol at hand, but the Dean 
decided to do some reorganizing in the departments."

Macbeth groaned. "Oh, no."

"That's pretty much what I said. Although the word choice was 
different."

"I don't blame you." He sighed. "Best wait to give me the details 
until after we've had a drink, then."

They lapsed into a brief silence as the cab broke free from the 
traffic, cutting across the parking lot to get ahead of the rush.
Macbeth was about to reprimand the driver when he caught something 
odd out of the corner of his eye. 

At the far end of the parking lot, a couple of men were loading a 
fairly large crate into the back of a truck. It wasn't a remarkable 
sight, but the size of the crate caught Macbeth's attention. You 
could fit four or five people inside--or an intact gargoyle statue.

"Len? What's the matter?"

He turned away from the window. "Did you see that?"

"No, what?" He pointed out the window. "I don't see anything."

Macbeth turned to see that the truck was no longer in sight. 
"Never mind, Therese. 'Twas probably nothing." He smiled. "Let's 
see about those drinks."

"Sounds like a plan to me," she said as the cab turned out of the 
airport and headed towards Lexington Avenue.

******

"Damn, this thing is heavy!" Roland protested for the sixth time.

Shifting his weight to get a better grip on the crate, Jerry glared
at his co-worker. "Shut up, Rollie, don't ya think I noticed that?
C'mon." He inclined his head towards the corner of the garage. "Almost 
there. Just dump--uh, I mean, set it down here, crack her open, and 
leave her."

"Can't believe we're doing this," Bob, another of the five guys 
lugging the crate, muttered. "Remind me again why we're lugging this 
damn thing halfway to China?"

"'Cause we got paid," Roland muttered. "And we'll get more later on.
I keep tellin' myself that, anyway."

"Okay, boys, we're setting her down here," Jerry ordered, "real 
gently. See the 'FRAGILE' sign they stuck on this baby?"

"It's been starin' me in the face this whole time," Leo snapped.
"Get on with it."

They bent down as one, each going into a crouch until the crate 
was a centimeter above the ground. "On the count of three, Leo, 
Benny, Rollie, you put your end down. One, two...three!"

One end touched the ground as the three men slid their fingers 
out in time to keep them from being squashed. "Okay, Bob, Ed, 
on the count of three. One, two...three!" 

"Damn!" Bob yelled as it was finally set down, jerking his hands
back and jumping to his feet. "Watch it, Jerry! You coulda 
broken my fingers!"

The other men standing around chuckled. "We would be so lucky,"
Leo quipped. There was a pause. "You know, I don't get this. 
We got hired to lug this crate out here, crack it open, and just 
walk away?"

Roland sniffed. "What's your point?"

"He's sayin' the guy who hired us could be named Corleone," Bob
answered. The others chuckled.

"Oh, yeah, real funny," Jerry said. "Look, I know it's weird, 
but it's legit, ok? The guy's some writer type from Jersey, and 
we're getting paid after the fact because he wants the stuff 
to make it in one piece."

"Could be drugs in there," Ed suggested. "Or a coupla corpses."

Jerry hefted a crowbar. "Well, there's only one way to find out."

They set to work, prying at the nails and eventually pulling off 
one of the panels, pulling out the packaging. When it was all 
out, the haulers stared at what was inside.

"Well," Leo said, "it's not a body."

The stone gargoyle statue was not what they expected. It was a 
female gargoyle, with long curly hair, wings, horns, and tail, 
exquisitely carved. But what was especially strange was the 
manner in which the subject was portrayed; unlike the medieval 
carvings in fierce, bestial poses, the statue was kneeling
with a stone pack clutched to its chest. Even stranger, the 
clothing carved upon it was modern-day: a jacket, turtleneck, 
and jeans with holes cut for wings and tail. 

"So what do we do now?" Bob said, breaking the silence.

Jerry was throwing the tools into the toolbox, hefting it in 
one arm. "We pack up and leave." As the others stared at him, he 
shrugged. "Hey, I don't know about you, but I want to get paid.
She's not cracked, so why worry?"

"I guess," Roland muttered as they headed out to the truck. 
He stole one last glance at the statue before hopping on the bed
with the others. "But there's something weird about all this."

******

"How did it go?" Callista automatically asked as her friend stormed 
down the hallway into the lobby.

Seeing the fury blazing in Sarah's eyes, Drew winced. "I'm guessing 
it didn't," he murmured in his girlfriend's ear.

"I hate registration," Sarah announced in a strident tone that echoed 
across the quad. "I hate transfer credits, I hate English lit, I hate 
core requirements, I hate this country, I hate the people who hire daft 
fools like that, I hate waiting in line three hours before dawn, and I 
really hate having to cut back on caffeine now!"

She punctuated every declaration with a shake of her registration 
papers. Drew deftly snatched them from her grip before she could 
cause any damage. "You couldn't have been blocked out of classes. 
I got the ones I needed."

"It's not that," Sarah sighed as Drew peered at the paper intently. 
"The Lucy Ricardo Barbie back there said my History and English 
classes won't transfer for their blasted requirements!"

"You didn't tell off the registrar, did you?" As Sarah shrugged, 
Callista groaned. "Of all the people to alienate!"

"So that's why people were applauding," Drew mused, only to have 
Callista shoot him a dirty look. "Never mind, just ignore the 
bystander."

Sighing, Callista turned back to Sarah. "I am not letting you do this 
to yourself. We're going back, you're going to apologize, and you
are going to get signed up for classes."

"Number one, I can't pick up all my requirements this semester," 
Sarah argued. "Number two, there is no bloody way you're getting 
me to apologize to that witch."

"Why don't you just take the courses here? Weren't you ahead on 
credits at Melbourne?" Drew was looking at papers and flipping 
through the course catalog, seemingly oblivious to the two of them. 

"I was ahead, but then I took a semester off," Sarah pointed out.
"I've already got nine credits towards my major; I need six 
credits to pick up both English and History. And I'm not insane 
enough to take fifteen credits and work full-time."

"Not with the hours you put in," Drew agreed.

Callista elbowed him. "You're *supposed* to be helping me."

"Um, well--" Drew paused, seeing the look in his girlfriend's eyes. 
Reluctantly, he proferred his catalog. 

Callista snatched it from his hands, flipping through it until 
she came upon a certain course listing. "How about this?"

Sarah took the catalog, squinting to see the course Callista was 
pointing to. "Renaissance Amphibium?" she read. "Are you daft? The 
title alone sounds masochistic!"

"It's only three credits," Callista pointed out. "And it'll fulfill
the English and History requirements at the same time."

Sarah did not look convinced. "Double the core credit equals double
the work. Forget it."

Drew sighed, but he didn't look too disappointed. "Can't fault a guy 
for trying."

Callista was peering at Drew's schedule. "Aren't *you* taking this 
class?"
 
"What?" Before Drew could react, Sarah snatched the schedule from his 
hands. "You're taking this?" She grinned suddenly, an idea coming to 
her. "Of course! You're the writer; you can help me!"

Drew stared at her in much the way a wolf caught in the chicken coop 
would stare down the barrel of a farmer's rifle. "Oh no. No, no, no, 
no, no..." 

But Sarah had already turned and was hurrying back towards the 
registrar's office. Sighing, Drew glared at his girlfriend. "I'm going 
to have to get back at you for this, you realize that."

Callista nodded.

******

[At this point, I washed my hands of the fic. The above scene doesn't
look like much, but it took WAY too much time and I struggled through 
it. When a fanfic stops being fun, it's time to stop writing it. --Mandi]