"...Are we not all, in some way, looking for our cow?"
Ok, can't believe I'm posting this, let alone wrote it, but what the hey. So, I was home sick, alternately napping and working my way through various people's archives, and I came across [info]reremouse's Donut Boy series. And I read the epilogue, in which Xander announces to Spike, "You're my cow."

And that came together in my head with Pratchett's most recent offering, and...well. The twisted result is the product of my sick mind.

Disclaimer: The original Where's My Cow? is copyright Terry Pratchett and I offer sincere apologies to Discworld fans everywhere.



Where's My Cow?


by
Electricalgwen


Xander twitched and turned over, in that hazy feverish dreamtime between sleep and waking. His throat hurt, his head ached, and he wanted to sink back into sleep and miss the rest of the being-sick.

Cool hands were stroking his forehead, pushing his sweat-dampened hair off his face. He sighed and snuggled back under the blanket, feeling cared-for like he hadn’t been in years. Years ago, before his mother had forgotten how to be a mother. When she would sit with her sick toddler and read him his favourite book, over and over. Because some things are important.

Where’s my cow?
Is that my cow?
It goes, “Baa!”
It is a sheep!
That’s not my cow!

Where’s my cow?
Is that my cow?
It goes, “I have a sacred duty to eat these donuts!”
It is Buffy!
That’s not my cow!

Where’s my cow?
Is that my cow?
It goes, “Um…well…it was a very simple spell that I thought would make it easier for Buffy to track the bad guys, and I’m sure I got all the ingredients right but nothing in the book said anything about exploding, and…oh Buffy, I’m really sorry you’re a sausage dog and I’ll fix it as soon as I can!”
It is Willow!
That’s not my cow!

Where’s my cow?
Is that my cow?
It goes, “Are you planning to supply me with orgasms now? Because if not, I really must finish organizing the money.”
It is Anya!
That’s not my cow!

Where’s my cow?
Is that my cow?
It goes, “That’s ‘B’hrgh’rit’ demons, not ‘Bugger it’, Buffy. And Xander, how many times must I ask you to desist from calling me G-man?”
It is Giles!
That’s not my cow!

Where’s my cow?
Is that my cow?
It goes, “How come I can’t go on patrol? Nobody ever tells me anything!”
It is Dawn!
That’s not my cow!

Where’s my cow?
Is that my cow?
It goes, "Bloody hell! Who ate all the Weetabix?!”
That’s my cow!

“Cow,” yawned Xander, falling asleep.
“That’s my boy,” said Spike, as he tucked him in.




The End




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