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hellowonderlandPrevious chapters can be found {here}
Title: The Red Deeps (Chapter Seven)
Author: Trixen
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything in the VM or BtVS verses, I promise.
Word Count:
Rating: NC 17 for sex and generalities (gross poetry, femslash, crossover madness!)
Pairings: Buffy/Veronica, Buffy/Angel, Buffy/Spike, Logan/Veronica, lots of others
Summary: In a lonely, changed world, Buffy Summers struggles to overcome her grief, her violent obsession with Veronica Mars, and run a resistance against the demons that are rapidly taking over the earth. The search for missing pilot Logan Echolls brings Buffy into Veronica's orbit once more, and everything spins, spins, taking the two women from Romania, to the Challenger Deep and to places they never dreamt or imagined. Subplots abound, including Buffy's wartime romance with an on-the-run Spike, Dawn's training of the baby slayers and bi-sexual lifestyle, Angel's disappearance, the vanishings of Buffy's friends and Veronica's unending quest to find her Father and herself.
Veronica sits on my living room floor, goose bumps prickled along her thin arms. The draft from the kitchen still colours the room like smoke, and though the fire is burning like a burning thing, it hasn’t warmed up enough to rid the chill from my skin. Papers rest on Veronica’s lap and Familiar lies at her feet, crouched up against her knees. A clay mug of wine sits next to her hip and every few moments, she raises it to her mouth, drinking deep. It is a briny wine; tastes salted. Spike wrote to me when he sent it, saying that months before, a huge wave had enveloped the vines, and when it receded, the grapes had seemed harvested by mermaids. I watch Veronica, mute and unmoving, remembering a time before, when we were sitting like this, in front of my fire, looking for her Father.
I was trying to find something that I could do and she was thisclose to breaking into tiny pieces, her body shuddering, as if it was being repeatedly banged up against a seawall. Flotsam and jetsam, but so unDisney. She made pasta – there was still pasta then, not exactly Ravioli- but still, pasta with carbs. There wasn’t any sauce, so we poured vinegar over it and it had tasted terribly, horribly, of Angel’s tears. I ate my whole plate, conscious not to vomit, conscious to lick every drop up.
Memories, after all, are the only company we keep.
“Find anything?” I ask her.
“Shockingly, no.”
We both fall silent. She has piled all of her hair on top of her head, and is slightly drunk and teetery. Shifting so that she can lay flat on her belly, she continues sifting through the various notes I’ve made on the hot topic of Logan’s disappearing act. As she gets tipsier, she starts to snort, sniff, or downright scoff at some of the comments in the margins. I’m beginning to get irritated and take another drink from my mug. Soon I’ll probably be morphing into cave-Buffy and bashing her head in with a club. Wine = bad.
“Do you want something to eat?” I ask.
She looks up, interested. “What do you have?”
“Jane left some things here—cheese, apples.”
“I feel like a horse. Can’t hack another apple.”
I say nothing, and she looks awkward.
“Sooo…” she begins, “heard from Dawn lately?”
“When I call her.”
“Kids today,” she says dryly, mocking our adulthood. “Is she still with that girl?”
“Which one?”
“The baby lesbian. What was she, 16?”
“17. The Potential. I remember—“ I squirm, a little uncomfortable. “I think Dawn was just the starter. She moved on to the entrée a few months ago. Dawn’s just—busy with work. I like to think that. Anything else is just gross.”
“At least she’s not lonely,” Veronica says, soft.
We stare at each other for a moment, and I feel the weight in my chest, like a dark bell. A glow spreads through the left pocket of my jeans, and I’m ashamed at how relieved I am. Awkwardness averted. “It’s a letter,” I say, fishing it out. A few sheets of paper, each scrawled with very familiar writing. Blobs of ink smear beneath my fingers. He sent it this right after he finished. “From Giles.”
“Read it,” Veronica says.
I obey, conscious that once again, there are no secrets between us. But I feel unable to stop it.
Buffy,
How are you faring? I hope well. Did you receive the advance draft of the encyclopedia? Though it is not nearly complete, I wanted to share its progress with you in the hopes that your knowledge and insights could help to improve the dry tone and style. In addition, I am foggy on some details from the very beginnings of the battle. Though I know that the armies failed to keep back the dragons and hellhounds and while I realize that a hole punctured in the veil above us, allowing Snedronningen to empty into earth, I am still confused as to the exact nature of the fight: for instance, who participated in the first trial? How did the Shedu become involved? When did you arrive? When you got the call in Cleveland, as far as I know you traveled straight to Los Angeles, but I hear that you may have made a stop first. Also, though I know it may be painful for you, I must ask how exactly Angel died. Popular legend of course is that he was swallowed into the mouth of the dragon. But I must contest this belief, as I have never heard it confirmed by you. Are you absolutely certain that he was not taken by the Shedu or the Samael Are you sure that he did not orchestrate his own disappearance?
I know that you, above all, would pray for his safety. But I also know that you were quick to judge him dead and gone, and perhaps this stems from your experiences in the past. You were wounded so many times that you seem to want to believe the worst from the outset – a kind of armor? Please, do not be hasty. Angel is a beacon of hope to many who were helped by him in Los Angeles. See if Spike can do some digging (has he heard any more of the Dark Maiden or the Bloodlings? They interest me) or send Jane on an information hunt. If you tell me that you saw Angel take his last breath, with your very own eyes, then I will believe you, as I always have done. But if you did not see it, Buffy, please tell me so that we may begin a formal investigation. I would – funnily enough, hate to think of Angel lost somewhere, without help – when we could do something to rescue him.
On the mystery of Logan Echolls, I know only a little. Colleagues in the east have warned me that he may have been taken to a camp in Marrakesh. This is only supposition, but I will magic over some materials for you to look through in this regard. Many are spreading the rumour that he may have been attempting to defect. It is widely known that he was not happy with the ‘politics’ of the military and that he had been disenchanted since the disaster of the Caspian Wars. Others are saying that he did not set foot on a plane that day and that he may have left with his local girlfriend. It is all hearsay. But, as always, there may be some truth to the gossip.
I have found a rather troubling trend in my research. A vast number of vanishings in the region of the Challenger Deep over the past few years. I have sent over details. It may be worth checking into. Could you mobilize Dawn and the Potentials if needs be? If not, let me know and I will organize a mission for you – if you think it is necessary.
Wales is frozen, a shell. Someday you will have to come and stay in this old house. By then, we will have triumphed and the air will be sweet with springtime. Maybe you will have a few children, or perhaps I will. We can drink tea on the porch and speak of inconsequential things. There will be no war or death, only light and promise. Someday, Buffy, I do believe in this—I do believe. The world can be what it was meant to be.
With love,
Giles
We are silent for a few minutes. I feel slightly drunk from the wine and close to tears. Veronica is the first to speak.
“Do you think its right? That Angel might be alive?”
“He was dead already,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “Are you ever going to take off that locket? Don’t you think it’s a little... Victorian?”
“Funny.” I close my eyes. I bought it at Reedy’s Bazaar not long after Los Angeles burnt up. It was snowing, still a novelty, so I was bundled up and sort of enjoying it, daydreaming about snow angels and snowmen. My nose was red and my hair was still blond. I wasn’t even that skinny – my bones didn’t rub together. Still, I was almost dizzy with grief. I saw it from a distance, a heavy silver chain and a silver disc, chipped with opals and engraved with the wings of a bird. I asked the man running the stall what it was.
“A mourning locket.”
“What?”
“You put their hair in it. The dead person. It’s so you don’t forget.”
“How could I?” I asked him, very seriously.
“I don’t know, Slayer,” he said. “He was a hard one to follow.”
By then, everyone knew of our love story. I was still surprised, though and I bought it quickly, anxious to get away from the slipperiness of pity and sadness. The morning was sharply cold and the locket burned the skin over my heart. I didn’t have his hair, but it still resonated throughout my body. It was like the weight of his body, the tang of sperm, and his little spied smile.
Veronica speaks suddenly. “Marrakesh it is.”
“You want to start reading first?” I ask, my voice brittle.
“We can do it together,” she says, soft but steely. “Come here.”
I sit next to her, by the fire. Her knee touches mine, just one aching point of contact. Familiar snuffles in her sleep, a wolf noise. The papers begin to spread around us, like a fan, as if sent by ghosts.
Comments are loved, and will be met with groping & possibly some cuddling, if I'm feeling less butch.
Title: The Red Deeps (Chapter Seven)
Author: Trixen
Disclaimer: I don’t own anything in the VM or BtVS verses, I promise.
Word Count:
Rating: NC 17 for sex and generalities (gross poetry, femslash, crossover madness!)
Pairings: Buffy/Veronica, Buffy/Angel, Buffy/Spike, Logan/Veronica, lots of others
Summary: In a lonely, changed world, Buffy Summers struggles to overcome her grief, her violent obsession with Veronica Mars, and run a resistance against the demons that are rapidly taking over the earth. The search for missing pilot Logan Echolls brings Buffy into Veronica's orbit once more, and everything spins, spins, taking the two women from Romania, to the Challenger Deep and to places they never dreamt or imagined. Subplots abound, including Buffy's wartime romance with an on-the-run Spike, Dawn's training of the baby slayers and bi-sexual lifestyle, Angel's disappearance, the vanishings of Buffy's friends and Veronica's unending quest to find her Father and herself.
Veronica sits on my living room floor, goose bumps prickled along her thin arms. The draft from the kitchen still colours the room like smoke, and though the fire is burning like a burning thing, it hasn’t warmed up enough to rid the chill from my skin. Papers rest on Veronica’s lap and Familiar lies at her feet, crouched up against her knees. A clay mug of wine sits next to her hip and every few moments, she raises it to her mouth, drinking deep. It is a briny wine; tastes salted. Spike wrote to me when he sent it, saying that months before, a huge wave had enveloped the vines, and when it receded, the grapes had seemed harvested by mermaids. I watch Veronica, mute and unmoving, remembering a time before, when we were sitting like this, in front of my fire, looking for her Father.
I was trying to find something that I could do and she was thisclose to breaking into tiny pieces, her body shuddering, as if it was being repeatedly banged up against a seawall. Flotsam and jetsam, but so unDisney. She made pasta – there was still pasta then, not exactly Ravioli- but still, pasta with carbs. There wasn’t any sauce, so we poured vinegar over it and it had tasted terribly, horribly, of Angel’s tears. I ate my whole plate, conscious not to vomit, conscious to lick every drop up.
Memories, after all, are the only company we keep.
“Find anything?” I ask her.
“Shockingly, no.”
We both fall silent. She has piled all of her hair on top of her head, and is slightly drunk and teetery. Shifting so that she can lay flat on her belly, she continues sifting through the various notes I’ve made on the hot topic of Logan’s disappearing act. As she gets tipsier, she starts to snort, sniff, or downright scoff at some of the comments in the margins. I’m beginning to get irritated and take another drink from my mug. Soon I’ll probably be morphing into cave-Buffy and bashing her head in with a club. Wine = bad.
“Do you want something to eat?” I ask.
She looks up, interested. “What do you have?”
“Jane left some things here—cheese, apples.”
“I feel like a horse. Can’t hack another apple.”
I say nothing, and she looks awkward.
“Sooo…” she begins, “heard from Dawn lately?”
“When I call her.”
“Kids today,” she says dryly, mocking our adulthood. “Is she still with that girl?”
“Which one?”
“The baby lesbian. What was she, 16?”
“17. The Potential. I remember—“ I squirm, a little uncomfortable. “I think Dawn was just the starter. She moved on to the entrée a few months ago. Dawn’s just—busy with work. I like to think that. Anything else is just gross.”
“At least she’s not lonely,” Veronica says, soft.
We stare at each other for a moment, and I feel the weight in my chest, like a dark bell. A glow spreads through the left pocket of my jeans, and I’m ashamed at how relieved I am. Awkwardness averted. “It’s a letter,” I say, fishing it out. A few sheets of paper, each scrawled with very familiar writing. Blobs of ink smear beneath my fingers. He sent it this right after he finished. “From Giles.”
“Read it,” Veronica says.
I obey, conscious that once again, there are no secrets between us. But I feel unable to stop it.
Buffy,
How are you faring? I hope well. Did you receive the advance draft of the encyclopedia? Though it is not nearly complete, I wanted to share its progress with you in the hopes that your knowledge and insights could help to improve the dry tone and style. In addition, I am foggy on some details from the very beginnings of the battle. Though I know that the armies failed to keep back the dragons and hellhounds and while I realize that a hole punctured in the veil above us, allowing Snedronningen to empty into earth, I am still confused as to the exact nature of the fight: for instance, who participated in the first trial? How did the Shedu become involved? When did you arrive? When you got the call in Cleveland, as far as I know you traveled straight to Los Angeles, but I hear that you may have made a stop first. Also, though I know it may be painful for you, I must ask how exactly Angel died. Popular legend of course is that he was swallowed into the mouth of the dragon. But I must contest this belief, as I have never heard it confirmed by you. Are you absolutely certain that he was not taken by the Shedu or the Samael Are you sure that he did not orchestrate his own disappearance?
I know that you, above all, would pray for his safety. But I also know that you were quick to judge him dead and gone, and perhaps this stems from your experiences in the past. You were wounded so many times that you seem to want to believe the worst from the outset – a kind of armor? Please, do not be hasty. Angel is a beacon of hope to many who were helped by him in Los Angeles. See if Spike can do some digging (has he heard any more of the Dark Maiden or the Bloodlings? They interest me) or send Jane on an information hunt. If you tell me that you saw Angel take his last breath, with your very own eyes, then I will believe you, as I always have done. But if you did not see it, Buffy, please tell me so that we may begin a formal investigation. I would – funnily enough, hate to think of Angel lost somewhere, without help – when we could do something to rescue him.
On the mystery of Logan Echolls, I know only a little. Colleagues in the east have warned me that he may have been taken to a camp in Marrakesh. This is only supposition, but I will magic over some materials for you to look through in this regard. Many are spreading the rumour that he may have been attempting to defect. It is widely known that he was not happy with the ‘politics’ of the military and that he had been disenchanted since the disaster of the Caspian Wars. Others are saying that he did not set foot on a plane that day and that he may have left with his local girlfriend. It is all hearsay. But, as always, there may be some truth to the gossip.
I have found a rather troubling trend in my research. A vast number of vanishings in the region of the Challenger Deep over the past few years. I have sent over details. It may be worth checking into. Could you mobilize Dawn and the Potentials if needs be? If not, let me know and I will organize a mission for you – if you think it is necessary.
Wales is frozen, a shell. Someday you will have to come and stay in this old house. By then, we will have triumphed and the air will be sweet with springtime. Maybe you will have a few children, or perhaps I will. We can drink tea on the porch and speak of inconsequential things. There will be no war or death, only light and promise. Someday, Buffy, I do believe in this—I do believe. The world can be what it was meant to be.
With love,
Giles
We are silent for a few minutes. I feel slightly drunk from the wine and close to tears. Veronica is the first to speak.
“Do you think its right? That Angel might be alive?”
“He was dead already,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “Are you ever going to take off that locket? Don’t you think it’s a little... Victorian?”
“Funny.” I close my eyes. I bought it at Reedy’s Bazaar not long after Los Angeles burnt up. It was snowing, still a novelty, so I was bundled up and sort of enjoying it, daydreaming about snow angels and snowmen. My nose was red and my hair was still blond. I wasn’t even that skinny – my bones didn’t rub together. Still, I was almost dizzy with grief. I saw it from a distance, a heavy silver chain and a silver disc, chipped with opals and engraved with the wings of a bird. I asked the man running the stall what it was.
“A mourning locket.”
“What?”
“You put their hair in it. The dead person. It’s so you don’t forget.”
“How could I?” I asked him, very seriously.
“I don’t know, Slayer,” he said. “He was a hard one to follow.”
By then, everyone knew of our love story. I was still surprised, though and I bought it quickly, anxious to get away from the slipperiness of pity and sadness. The morning was sharply cold and the locket burned the skin over my heart. I didn’t have his hair, but it still resonated throughout my body. It was like the weight of his body, the tang of sperm, and his little spied smile.
Veronica speaks suddenly. “Marrakesh it is.”
“You want to start reading first?” I ask, my voice brittle.
“We can do it together,” she says, soft but steely. “Come here.”
I sit next to her, by the fire. Her knee touches mine, just one aching point of contact. Familiar snuffles in her sleep, a wolf noise. The papers begin to spread around us, like a fan, as if sent by ghosts.
Comments are loved, and will be met with groping & possibly some cuddling, if I'm feeling less butch.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2008-02-27 03:43 am (UTC)I thought the letter from Giles sounded so much like him. And in the face of so much tragedy, I can believe that Giles has finally forgiven Angel all and only wishes that he somehow still be alive.
Funny how in one sense Giles and Buffy have reversed - he is now the optimist.
no subject
Date: 2008-02-27 02:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-02-27 02:41 pm (UTC)I was trying to find something that I could do and she was thisclose to breaking into tiny pieces, her body shuddering, as if it was being repeatedly banged up against a seawall. Is a great line.
no subject
Date: 2008-02-27 06:15 pm (UTC)Love This Fic
Date: 2008-05-04 02:19 am (UTC)Keep on writing!!!!!
no subject
Date: 2011-08-12 01:47 am (UTC)