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hellowonderlandPrevious chapters can be found {here}
Title: By the Rivers Dark (4/32)
Author: Trixen
Rating: R
Summary: A re-write of a past, unfinished fic, “Lazarus”. After traveling to London in search of Potentials, Buffy discovers a portal in the ruins of the Watcher’s Council building, which sends her hurtling back in Time. It also changes everything. You know. Forever.
Timeline: After “Bring on the Night”
Note: There is an “Atonement” reference here. Couldn’t resist.
Pairing: Buffy/Angel. OTP, y’all, OTP.
Buffy concentrates on her own breathing. Hannah is making soup and the smell of potatoes fills the air, smoky and sweet. The rhythmic sound of the knife, thwack, thwack, as it slices vegetables. Hannah moves like she knows how to move, gamine and boyish, a carrot between her lips like a cigarette. Her pillowy lips shine like tears in the waning rainy afternoon. A blanket is tacked up to cover the broken window, but slats of bone-light still illume Hannah’s face when wind stirs the cotton. Sabina has gone to get fish and chips, and outside, a plane whines through the sky.
Steam rises from the pots on the stove, like smoke from a pipe.
One, two. One breath, two breaths, maybe three. She places one hand over her breast, her left breast, in order to measure the beats of her heart. If it isn’t throbbing at least she’ll know that she’s dead and this is just some bizarro version of Slayer Hell. But it is. A little quick and stattaco, but its still there, the intimate pump of blood. So. She was pushed out of her own dimension so fast it would be enough to give a girl a complex – if she was that kind of girl. Important though: who did it? Was it the First? Was it Willow, pissing all over her territory for the final time? Was it Glory? But why, why? And now, these girls. So, they know vampires. They know Potentials. All signs are pointing to Slayerville, but she’s not sure exactly what route to take.
She looks around for clues. She is sitting in the living room, which is small and would be bare, if not for the haphazard bookcases and shabby brocade couches. Volume after volume of literature—but Buffy isn’t close enough to see the titles. There are candles, waxy and fat, and photos framed on the walls, their edges veined and scabbing with age. A blue-tiled fireplace is built into the rear wall, to the left of her, and it smells of ashes and pussy, a combination that reminds her of Faith. Wrong, wrong, wrong, but she can’t help but associate. A deep plushy chair rests in front of the fireplace, and a bowl of water and flowers sits on top of one shelf. Buffy stares at the floating petals and in one sharp moment wonders if someone has succeeded, finally, in separating her from Dawn. She remembers again – the black blood jet, the terribleness of the whisper as she was cut from the earth like an aborted fetus.
“Are you all right?” Hannah asks from the kitchen, the carrot still between her lips. “You’ve gone quite ashy suddenly. Shall I make you some tea?”
Buffy breathes again, one two three four. Her hair is still wet from the rain, and it drip drops a little onto her neck. “Sure, thanks.” And she grows tired of the dark, asks if she can light a fire. The motion of lifting wood, of feeling the fullness in her arms, it soothes. The thick matches catch easily, and she lifts her hands up, stealing warmth. She watches Hannah again, thinking of all the questions she would like to ask. Why is Whistler here? Which one of you slays and which one of you tags along? Why do you think I’m a Potential? Are you Keira Knightley’s time traveling twin? But she settles down, accepting the mug of hot tea and sipping deep.
“Who are you?”
Hannah looks at her pityingly. “Whistler really told you nothing.”
“Not a lot, no,” she answers, annoyed. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing here.”
“I don’t know why I should be surprised – Whistler—“
“Has pubic hair growing out of his ears,” Sabina says, from the hallway. She appears a second later, dewy wet with rain, her hair tucked behind her ears and two grease-stained bags in her hands. “I have sustenance.”
Soon, they are eating in front of the fire. Thick, crunchy-skinned cod, fragrant soup, vinegary fries. At first, Buffy stares at the food, wondering if it will attack. And then, she eats. She eats until her stomach hurts. Her skinny little stomach. She watches it bulge out as she burps softly beneath her breath.
“Protein,” she says, satisfied and spent, her skin flushed pink. “So,” she takes a leap and turns to Sabina, “are you the Slayer?”
Sabina laughs at the question, showing sharp white teeth. “Hannah is stronger than she looks.”
“Oh.” Buffy feels stupid. “But one of you IS the Slayer?”
“Bloody Whistler,” Hannah looks irritated. “Did he sign you up for this without even a debrief? Goodness—well, as a Potential, I’m sure you’ve been told what I do, what we all do here?”
“Nuh uh,” Buffy says, playing dumb. The less she appears to know, the better.
Sabina blows on her soup. “You’d think he would have been arsed to at least—“
“He’s busy,” Hannah says, pacifying. “Well -- I know I look like a ten-year-old boy. But it’s all muscle. I’m the Slayer—and Sabina is a Potential, the next, in fact. She will be called if I—well. What did Whistler tell you?”
“Well,” Buffy feels around for inspiration. Metaphorically speaking. “He said that—big things were coming up and that I should be ready for them. He said that’s what tests us. The stuff. The big stuff. Long story short, he basically said I’d be working – training, slaying, the usual fun. What exactly do you guys do?”
Sabina snorts, like a horse, with a little puff of white breath. “Everything.”
Hannah takes another bite of fish. There is grease shining her fingertips. “It’s complicated. We work indirectly for the Council of course – they’re the Shadow men in the background, ordering our movements, paying us our stipends and generally organizing the missions. They operate out of the building that you could see on Trecangate Crescent. That’s how Ram knew to bring you to me. The building is charmed extensively to prevent civilians from seeing – too many strange comings and goings. They may be pompous fools, but our work is well oiled and useful. We wouldn’t want to be—“
“Dead weight,” Sabina puts in.
Hannah throws her an annoyed glance. “Directly, we report to Imogen Ballard—the operating Manager of our sector of the Resistance—they’ve nicknamed it the Monster Watch and its strictly black ops – nothing government about it, and we’d be strung up if they found out. It isn’t about demons anymore, or vampires—not completely, at least. There is so much more evil in the human soul than anyone could have ever guessed.” Her voice goes soft, scratchy. “More than I could have imagined.”
“Don’t you worry about someone hearing all of this?” Buffy asks. “Your walls are like paper.”
“Oh, we have charms set up for secret-keeping.”
“I knew this would turn into a Harry Potter crossover.”
“Who is that?”
“A wizard. Slightly yummy but also slightly jail-bait.” Buffy pauses. “What kind of missions do you go on?”
“Well, as Sabina said—every kind. I train Potential Slayers as best I can, and sometimes there are simple tasks, like burning up a nest or patrolling—you know. But often there are special assignments. They trust us to do things that civilians would not be able to do. Of course everyone must be equipped at weaponry, but we’re able to handle explosives, swords, machinery. You’ll be trained in all of that.”
“How many Potentials are there?” Buffy asks, wondering if they have direct descendants. Does it pass on, like a gene?
A look darts between the two girls, and she feels a prickle of awareness. A lie is about to materialize in the air, electric and bitter.
Sabina speaks, gnawing on her lower lip until it blossoms with a small drop of blood. “You’re the first.”
You’re a terrible liar, Buffy thinks, but doesn’t respond for a moment. “When do I start?”
“Tomorrow,” Hannah says. “We’ll take you on a tour of headquarters. You can meet the rest of the Monster Watch.”
“Its bigger than the two of you?”
“Yes,” Sabina says, her tone suggesting she is speaking to a stupid child. “A few Watchers, a couple of contract demon hunters, and one volunteer specialist. Everyone is extremely capable.” There is something regal and Slavic about her voice, and Buffy suddenly wonders where she hails from – or where she escaped from. “You will have to try hard to fit in and not get in anyone’s way.”
“And then what? Do I get a gold star?”
Hannah snorts a bit. She puts down her plate and licks her fingers clean, one by one. “You’ll be sleeping on the couch, for now. I’ll clean up the spare bedroom for you tomorrow. We should have an early night. Any questions? I do hope we’ve welcomed you properly—we’re not, well, we’re not used to this, you see. Sabina and I—we’ve been a fussy little married couple for far too long.”
“Do I get a tour of the Council building too?”
Sabina shakes her head. “God, no. We don’t bother them and they don’t bother us. We would never dream of entering their sacred little spot. No Slayer is allowed within the hallowed walls.”
“What do you mean?” Buffy asks, her stomach boiling up into her throat. “Even if I asked nicely?”
“Not even if you stripped naked and covered yourself with sugar,” Sabina says.
Hannah begins to gather up the plates. “No invitations and no requests. Its passworded anyhow—there’s so much special clearance that we wouldn’t be able to get in even if we should wish to. Why should you want to see it so badly?”
“I don’t,” Buffy looks down, and wishes she had a battle ax. It would split the door at 14 Trecangate in two, like an apple. Maybe a troll god’s mallet. Her voice is quiet, a careful disguise. “I was just curious.”
++
As she steps outside, the only light that shines is from the stars. Above her, they burn. Each window is blacked out, criss-crossed with tarp and tape. She breathes in deeply, expects to feel – poetically, the dust of the past. Instead, the air is fresh with fallen rain and droning with insects. Through the crowded buildings, she can see a glint that she assumes is the river. Turning in that direction, Buffy begins to walk, and then to run, intent on remembering that not even a password can stop her – she doesn’t need an ax, or a mallet. She is the Slayer. She is the Slayer.
Comments will be met with joy & licking. Reply or don't reply, your choice, but I'll tell you: my tongue? Bliss.
Title: By the Rivers Dark (4/32)
Author: Trixen
Rating: R
Summary: A re-write of a past, unfinished fic, “Lazarus”. After traveling to London in search of Potentials, Buffy discovers a portal in the ruins of the Watcher’s Council building, which sends her hurtling back in Time. It also changes everything. You know. Forever.
Timeline: After “Bring on the Night”
Note: There is an “Atonement” reference here. Couldn’t resist.
Pairing: Buffy/Angel. OTP, y’all, OTP.
Buffy concentrates on her own breathing. Hannah is making soup and the smell of potatoes fills the air, smoky and sweet. The rhythmic sound of the knife, thwack, thwack, as it slices vegetables. Hannah moves like she knows how to move, gamine and boyish, a carrot between her lips like a cigarette. Her pillowy lips shine like tears in the waning rainy afternoon. A blanket is tacked up to cover the broken window, but slats of bone-light still illume Hannah’s face when wind stirs the cotton. Sabina has gone to get fish and chips, and outside, a plane whines through the sky.
Steam rises from the pots on the stove, like smoke from a pipe.
One, two. One breath, two breaths, maybe three. She places one hand over her breast, her left breast, in order to measure the beats of her heart. If it isn’t throbbing at least she’ll know that she’s dead and this is just some bizarro version of Slayer Hell. But it is. A little quick and stattaco, but its still there, the intimate pump of blood. So. She was pushed out of her own dimension so fast it would be enough to give a girl a complex – if she was that kind of girl. Important though: who did it? Was it the First? Was it Willow, pissing all over her territory for the final time? Was it Glory? But why, why? And now, these girls. So, they know vampires. They know Potentials. All signs are pointing to Slayerville, but she’s not sure exactly what route to take.
She looks around for clues. She is sitting in the living room, which is small and would be bare, if not for the haphazard bookcases and shabby brocade couches. Volume after volume of literature—but Buffy isn’t close enough to see the titles. There are candles, waxy and fat, and photos framed on the walls, their edges veined and scabbing with age. A blue-tiled fireplace is built into the rear wall, to the left of her, and it smells of ashes and pussy, a combination that reminds her of Faith. Wrong, wrong, wrong, but she can’t help but associate. A deep plushy chair rests in front of the fireplace, and a bowl of water and flowers sits on top of one shelf. Buffy stares at the floating petals and in one sharp moment wonders if someone has succeeded, finally, in separating her from Dawn. She remembers again – the black blood jet, the terribleness of the whisper as she was cut from the earth like an aborted fetus.
“Are you all right?” Hannah asks from the kitchen, the carrot still between her lips. “You’ve gone quite ashy suddenly. Shall I make you some tea?”
Buffy breathes again, one two three four. Her hair is still wet from the rain, and it drip drops a little onto her neck. “Sure, thanks.” And she grows tired of the dark, asks if she can light a fire. The motion of lifting wood, of feeling the fullness in her arms, it soothes. The thick matches catch easily, and she lifts her hands up, stealing warmth. She watches Hannah again, thinking of all the questions she would like to ask. Why is Whistler here? Which one of you slays and which one of you tags along? Why do you think I’m a Potential? Are you Keira Knightley’s time traveling twin? But she settles down, accepting the mug of hot tea and sipping deep.
“Who are you?”
Hannah looks at her pityingly. “Whistler really told you nothing.”
“Not a lot, no,” she answers, annoyed. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing here.”
“I don’t know why I should be surprised – Whistler—“
“Has pubic hair growing out of his ears,” Sabina says, from the hallway. She appears a second later, dewy wet with rain, her hair tucked behind her ears and two grease-stained bags in her hands. “I have sustenance.”
Soon, they are eating in front of the fire. Thick, crunchy-skinned cod, fragrant soup, vinegary fries. At first, Buffy stares at the food, wondering if it will attack. And then, she eats. She eats until her stomach hurts. Her skinny little stomach. She watches it bulge out as she burps softly beneath her breath.
“Protein,” she says, satisfied and spent, her skin flushed pink. “So,” she takes a leap and turns to Sabina, “are you the Slayer?”
Sabina laughs at the question, showing sharp white teeth. “Hannah is stronger than she looks.”
“Oh.” Buffy feels stupid. “But one of you IS the Slayer?”
“Bloody Whistler,” Hannah looks irritated. “Did he sign you up for this without even a debrief? Goodness—well, as a Potential, I’m sure you’ve been told what I do, what we all do here?”
“Nuh uh,” Buffy says, playing dumb. The less she appears to know, the better.
Sabina blows on her soup. “You’d think he would have been arsed to at least—“
“He’s busy,” Hannah says, pacifying. “Well -- I know I look like a ten-year-old boy. But it’s all muscle. I’m the Slayer—and Sabina is a Potential, the next, in fact. She will be called if I—well. What did Whistler tell you?”
“Well,” Buffy feels around for inspiration. Metaphorically speaking. “He said that—big things were coming up and that I should be ready for them. He said that’s what tests us. The stuff. The big stuff. Long story short, he basically said I’d be working – training, slaying, the usual fun. What exactly do you guys do?”
Sabina snorts, like a horse, with a little puff of white breath. “Everything.”
Hannah takes another bite of fish. There is grease shining her fingertips. “It’s complicated. We work indirectly for the Council of course – they’re the Shadow men in the background, ordering our movements, paying us our stipends and generally organizing the missions. They operate out of the building that you could see on Trecangate Crescent. That’s how Ram knew to bring you to me. The building is charmed extensively to prevent civilians from seeing – too many strange comings and goings. They may be pompous fools, but our work is well oiled and useful. We wouldn’t want to be—“
“Dead weight,” Sabina puts in.
Hannah throws her an annoyed glance. “Directly, we report to Imogen Ballard—the operating Manager of our sector of the Resistance—they’ve nicknamed it the Monster Watch and its strictly black ops – nothing government about it, and we’d be strung up if they found out. It isn’t about demons anymore, or vampires—not completely, at least. There is so much more evil in the human soul than anyone could have ever guessed.” Her voice goes soft, scratchy. “More than I could have imagined.”
“Don’t you worry about someone hearing all of this?” Buffy asks. “Your walls are like paper.”
“Oh, we have charms set up for secret-keeping.”
“I knew this would turn into a Harry Potter crossover.”
“Who is that?”
“A wizard. Slightly yummy but also slightly jail-bait.” Buffy pauses. “What kind of missions do you go on?”
“Well, as Sabina said—every kind. I train Potential Slayers as best I can, and sometimes there are simple tasks, like burning up a nest or patrolling—you know. But often there are special assignments. They trust us to do things that civilians would not be able to do. Of course everyone must be equipped at weaponry, but we’re able to handle explosives, swords, machinery. You’ll be trained in all of that.”
“How many Potentials are there?” Buffy asks, wondering if they have direct descendants. Does it pass on, like a gene?
A look darts between the two girls, and she feels a prickle of awareness. A lie is about to materialize in the air, electric and bitter.
Sabina speaks, gnawing on her lower lip until it blossoms with a small drop of blood. “You’re the first.”
You’re a terrible liar, Buffy thinks, but doesn’t respond for a moment. “When do I start?”
“Tomorrow,” Hannah says. “We’ll take you on a tour of headquarters. You can meet the rest of the Monster Watch.”
“Its bigger than the two of you?”
“Yes,” Sabina says, her tone suggesting she is speaking to a stupid child. “A few Watchers, a couple of contract demon hunters, and one volunteer specialist. Everyone is extremely capable.” There is something regal and Slavic about her voice, and Buffy suddenly wonders where she hails from – or where she escaped from. “You will have to try hard to fit in and not get in anyone’s way.”
“And then what? Do I get a gold star?”
Hannah snorts a bit. She puts down her plate and licks her fingers clean, one by one. “You’ll be sleeping on the couch, for now. I’ll clean up the spare bedroom for you tomorrow. We should have an early night. Any questions? I do hope we’ve welcomed you properly—we’re not, well, we’re not used to this, you see. Sabina and I—we’ve been a fussy little married couple for far too long.”
“Do I get a tour of the Council building too?”
Sabina shakes her head. “God, no. We don’t bother them and they don’t bother us. We would never dream of entering their sacred little spot. No Slayer is allowed within the hallowed walls.”
“What do you mean?” Buffy asks, her stomach boiling up into her throat. “Even if I asked nicely?”
“Not even if you stripped naked and covered yourself with sugar,” Sabina says.
Hannah begins to gather up the plates. “No invitations and no requests. Its passworded anyhow—there’s so much special clearance that we wouldn’t be able to get in even if we should wish to. Why should you want to see it so badly?”
“I don’t,” Buffy looks down, and wishes she had a battle ax. It would split the door at 14 Trecangate in two, like an apple. Maybe a troll god’s mallet. Her voice is quiet, a careful disguise. “I was just curious.”
++
As she steps outside, the only light that shines is from the stars. Above her, they burn. Each window is blacked out, criss-crossed with tarp and tape. She breathes in deeply, expects to feel – poetically, the dust of the past. Instead, the air is fresh with fallen rain and droning with insects. Through the crowded buildings, she can see a glint that she assumes is the river. Turning in that direction, Buffy begins to walk, and then to run, intent on remembering that not even a password can stop her – she doesn’t need an ax, or a mallet. She is the Slayer. She is the Slayer.
Comments will be met with joy & licking. Reply or don't reply, your choice, but I'll tell you: my tongue? Bliss.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-02-27 02:42 am (UTC)Now give me more before I have to hurt you. (I know you'll like it.)
no subject
Date: 2008-03-02 12:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-27 03:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-02 12:09 am (UTC)Thanks for the comment!
no subject
Date: 2008-02-27 04:36 am (UTC)I wonder why the lies about the potentials? I suspect more than meets the eye.
One complaint - considering how little Buffy pretended to know, her offhand comment about Harry Potter, boy wizard should have struck the others as odd.
no subject
Date: 2008-03-02 12:12 am (UTC)Thanks for the comment!
no subject
Date: 2008-02-27 06:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-02 12:13 am (UTC)I don't think they would be lost by going back in time. She's still Buffy, the Slayer, despite the massive upheaval.
no subject
Date: 2008-02-28 01:21 am (UTC)I liked the bit about Buffy wondering if someone had separated her from Dawn at last; for some reason--and I'm not a HUGE Dawn fan, either--that really spoke to me. Also, Buffy's mental queries about who could have done it... Glory, The First, Willow? Very well done, it hit all of the right chords.
In your world, what is Buffy's relationship with Willow? Is there still a good bit of wariness there, even some antagonism? I'd be interested to know.
As always, I await your next update with bated breath. Gimme!
no subject
Date: 2008-02-29 02:49 am (UTC)I've never read Lazarus... is there anywhere I can read it?! :)
no subject
Date: 2008-07-02 12:36 am (UTC)