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hellowonderlandPrevious chapters can be found here: {pretty}
Title: By the Rivers Dark (5/32)
Author: Trixen
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Clearly, I don’t own them.
Summary: On a jaunt to London with Giles, in search of the magical list of Potential Slayers, Buffy stumbles upon a portal, which hurtles her through Time and directly into wartime London, circa 1942. Obviously this changes her life. In the forever way.
Author’s Note: This is a re-write of “Lazarus”.
Pairing: Buffy/Angel
As her run slows to a walk, and her pumping breaths stride on, she stops with the mantra I am the Slayer, I am the Slayer, I am the Slayer because it is beginning to make her feel a little crazy, and that is the last thing that she needs. But still, the world seems tilted upside-down, and if she looks up, she thinks the sky is an ocean, and the stars are foam on the waves, and the planes are little ships, with bombs for brains.
She is the Slayer, or she is not-the-Slayer, because in this part of Time, she doesn’t even exist yet. Oh, where is Giles? She would murder for a cup of tea and a reassuring encyclopedia.
Really, though. Cold panic isn’t of the necessary. All she needs to do is get back to 14 Trecangate, because the darkness is such a nice cover, and do what she couldn’t do in the sunshine. Knock politely on the door, break down the door, whatever, find Quentin’s office, kill him if at all possible, and get her hands on the book. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy, or whatever it is Spike says when he’s had to much to drink and starts regressing back to his days as an upper-class Englishman.
The word ‘Spike’, filters through, and Buffy remembers a dream she had, five or so nights ago. She doesn’t want to remember it, but like most things in life, it comes barreling like a train, unwilling to let her forget. There was a canyon, with fire in it, and her and Spike lay alongside, staring up at the sky. There were no stars, no sunlight, no moon made of green cheese. He was saying words to her, words she didn’t recognize, riparian, chiaroscuro, peregrination, which freaked her out because she knew enough to know that words she didn’t know shouldn’t be popping up in dreams. But pop they did, like champagne corks. The fire got hotter, his voice got softer, and she turned to him, cutting his head off with an axe.
“Stop talking,” was all she said.
Pushing the remains of the dream from her mind, she looks at the ruined buildings on either side of her. No lights burn in any of the windows and most of those are broken anyway, reflecting the moon in their shards. She is the only person on the street. Except—she hears voices to her left and rounds a corner near a little restaurant that advertises its ration-free eating. There is a group of three women standing in the shadows, dressed in pants and tops, their willowy figures surrounded by the faint glow of cigarette smoke. One has black hair caught back in a ponytail and she is whispering, “It’s when they got the water mains, I know it.”
Another, who has a jade choker at her throat, nods. “But she wasn’t in there, Blue, and there’s no use thinking she was.”
The third says nothing for a moment, blows out smoke impatiently. “She was competition.”
‘Blue’ ignores that. “I’m not worried. She just talked about the underground. Said it was the place to hide.”
“We don’t get business if we hide,” the third one says, and then spots Buffy. “Speaking of.”
Buffy blushes but she’s lost, so probably best to swallow whatever pride is left. She waves half-heartedly. “Hi.”
The girl with the jade choker takes a look and smiles. Her voice is breathy. “My God. It’s just like Sappho said—‘in the spring twilight, the full moon is shining, girls take their places, as though ‘round an altar.’ She’s splendid, ain’t she?”
“Who? The poet or the girl?”
“I’m still here,” Buffy says, uncertain of the situation. “Just—looking for directions.”
“Or maybe a girl?”
“Huh?”
The girl with the black hair reaches out, takes her hand to shake it. “I’m Blue, our resident poet here is Kate and that there—“ she cocks her head at the one blowing smoke in all of their faces, “is Margot. What’re you looking for? Cause directions—that’s the best one we’ve heard all week. Don’t worry, cricket, we’re quiet. There won’t be any trouble.”
“But—“ she pauses. “Directions are what I want.”
“At this time of the night?” Kate asks. “Which one of us do you like? Cause if it’s me, I promise ya, it’ll be a good one.”
“Ohhhh,” Buffy suddenly understands, and wishes Willow were here to navigate the conversation. “I’m not—I mean, you—with girls?”
“I only do girls,” Blue says. “So does Kate. Margot isn’t as particular.”
“I need money,” Margot finally says. “Bodies are all the same in the dark.”
“Not in the light, though,” Kate smiles.
“I didn’t think there’d be much of a market for—“ Buffy stops herself, really wonders if she wants to go any further. “I mean, good for you.”
“It is good, cricket,” Blue laughs and leans against the window of the clothing shop behind them. “You’d be amazed. You really are lost, then?”
“Yes, couldn’t be more,” Buffy sighs with relief. “Woolwich?”
“Next left, follow the river and stop when you get to the boardwalk on Trecangate Crescent,” Margot says, looking bored. “That’s the beginning of Woolwich. Specific houses, I can’t help you with.”
“S’ok,” Buffy says. “More than ok.” Although she’s in a hurry, she can’t help herself. “What were you guys talking about—what about the water mains?” The words remind her of a map she saw in Giles’ office once, of an older Sunnydale. Here be the churches, here are the witches, here be the water mains, here dwell the warlocks. “Apologies for the eavesdropping.”
Blue bites her lip. “They bombed the tunnels during the last blitz. It got the water mains.”
“People died,” Margot adds succinctly. “Drowned.”
“Maybe one of our friends,” Kate says. “We can’t find her.”
Margot lights another cigarette, carelessly dropping her other one and stamping out the embers. “Our friend Rachel works for the Auxiliary. She sewed a baby together last night.” She blinks. “They don’t care who they hurt.”
Foresight is a terrible thing, and she swallows painfully. “Thanks for the help.”
“Anytime,” Blue replies. The other two nod at her, and she walks away.
+
14 Trecangate is a monolith on dry land. Buffy stares up, up at it, remembering Giles’ words on the plane. It is tall and grey – the windows look like slabs of mirrors, cut into rows. Over the years, they have changed the charms to repel any civilians – before the explosion the building masqueraded as a bank, except without a single customer or pound note. There are two towers, both for observation and study. The left is used by Gale Tessera, the Council astronomer, and the right is for the private use of Quentin Travers. She can see the towers, faintly, with no black tape to mar their glassed windows. Of course, they wouldn’t need it. Why fear bombs when you have a handy charm to repel civvies? Giles’ continues to whisper from the future. The top floor houses Travers and his assistants, the remaining floors are made up of offices for the underlings. In the very core of the building there is a large conference room where the annual meetings take place—it looks like a peach halved, two semi-circles, joined by a table. The lobby leads off into a massive underground research facility and library, the lengths of which I have not even witnessed. Some speak of it has more of a subterranean world—of course, I am speaking in the present tense. I should say that there was a library—with over three million volumes of literature on the supernatural and the underworld. I suspect most of the books have been reduced to shreds. It is as if he is speaking in her ear. She follows the lines of the building, mapping out a route.
It is like that map. Here be the lobby, here is the library door, here be the conference room, here dwells the snake. Aka: Quentin. She traces the air with her finger, painting the building with a line, from point A to point B. But was the right tower his office? Or did he just use it for study and whatever else weird spooky people get up to? Would the safe be there? What if the book was somewhere else? But, no. She was sure it had to be under Travers’ beady gaze. The magic between those pages was too powerful for mere mortals. And if there was anybody with a god complex, it was Quentin.
Wait—
Staring up at the building, Buffy suddenly has a thought. A person-shaped thought. Why is she assuming Quentin Travers is still in charge? Wouldn’t it be someone else? 1942 is a pretty sizable time away from her time. Unless--- is he a time traveler too? Did Hannah and Sabina mention his name? She realizes she’s over-thinking. The night air chills her and she shivers, rubbing her arms.
Walking up to the door, she presses her palm against the wood. A hum, like bees. Buffy wonders about windows being open or perhaps a convenient sewage tunnel to wander through, and just when she is turning away to look, the door opens. A man steps out from the darkness, lit only by the burning stars in the sky. He is short, thick around the neck, and bullet-eyed. Wearing only a black robe and gold rings on every finger, he looks like a very crazy Hugh Hefner.
“Go.”
Buffy thinks fast. “I need to look--“
“You aren’t wanted here,” he says low, cool. “Go.”
“I just need—“
Snap. His fist lashes out, so completely, so viciously, so suddenly, that she doesn’t have time to react, and it catches her smack in the cheek. Flying through the air, she is only dimly aware of the hot blood on her face, and the night flowing past. Her eyes begin to close and she thinks—drugs, there were drugs in his rings—before everything folds itself up around her and she is flat on the cobblestone, imagining a better ending.
+
A voice.
“You’re ok, just relax.”
Cotton beneath her. Softness. A bed? Great, she is about to be raped. Did the rings have roofies in them? Did they have roofies in 1942? But no, not Hugh Hefner’s voice. She shifts, groans at the sick throb through her head, at the gunmetal taste of blood in her mouth. Opening her eyes gingerly, she blinks, adjusting to the light by her bedside. A candle, flickering. The voice is just beyond, in the darkness. She is in a bedroom, bleeding over the sheets; she can see red droplets on the floor too. A path, like the breadcrumbs left by Hansel and Gretel.
“Wha?”
“Shhhh.”
He steps into the glowing light of the candle-flame and she breathes in sharply. “Oh--- my God, did you get dropped in here too?”
Angel looks confused and wary. He steps forward, presses a sopping cloth to her cheek. “Have we met before?”
Oh. Past Angel. Can of worms, everywhere. She looks up, at the razor cheekbones and the shy smile, not yet seen. He bathes her cheek with the cloth, staring down at her. She realizes, for the first time, that she did not get into the Watcher’s Council building, and she realizes, for the first time, how easily she was repelled. Grief and panic, they cleave into one, like bodies during a fight or a fuck, and she whispers.
“No, you just remind me of somebody I know.”
Title: By the Rivers Dark (5/32)
Author: Trixen
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Clearly, I don’t own them.
Summary: On a jaunt to London with Giles, in search of the magical list of Potential Slayers, Buffy stumbles upon a portal, which hurtles her through Time and directly into wartime London, circa 1942. Obviously this changes her life. In the forever way.
Author’s Note: This is a re-write of “Lazarus”.
Pairing: Buffy/Angel
As her run slows to a walk, and her pumping breaths stride on, she stops with the mantra I am the Slayer, I am the Slayer, I am the Slayer because it is beginning to make her feel a little crazy, and that is the last thing that she needs. But still, the world seems tilted upside-down, and if she looks up, she thinks the sky is an ocean, and the stars are foam on the waves, and the planes are little ships, with bombs for brains.
She is the Slayer, or she is not-the-Slayer, because in this part of Time, she doesn’t even exist yet. Oh, where is Giles? She would murder for a cup of tea and a reassuring encyclopedia.
Really, though. Cold panic isn’t of the necessary. All she needs to do is get back to 14 Trecangate, because the darkness is such a nice cover, and do what she couldn’t do in the sunshine. Knock politely on the door, break down the door, whatever, find Quentin’s office, kill him if at all possible, and get her hands on the book. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy, or whatever it is Spike says when he’s had to much to drink and starts regressing back to his days as an upper-class Englishman.
The word ‘Spike’, filters through, and Buffy remembers a dream she had, five or so nights ago. She doesn’t want to remember it, but like most things in life, it comes barreling like a train, unwilling to let her forget. There was a canyon, with fire in it, and her and Spike lay alongside, staring up at the sky. There were no stars, no sunlight, no moon made of green cheese. He was saying words to her, words she didn’t recognize, riparian, chiaroscuro, peregrination, which freaked her out because she knew enough to know that words she didn’t know shouldn’t be popping up in dreams. But pop they did, like champagne corks. The fire got hotter, his voice got softer, and she turned to him, cutting his head off with an axe.
“Stop talking,” was all she said.
Pushing the remains of the dream from her mind, she looks at the ruined buildings on either side of her. No lights burn in any of the windows and most of those are broken anyway, reflecting the moon in their shards. She is the only person on the street. Except—she hears voices to her left and rounds a corner near a little restaurant that advertises its ration-free eating. There is a group of three women standing in the shadows, dressed in pants and tops, their willowy figures surrounded by the faint glow of cigarette smoke. One has black hair caught back in a ponytail and she is whispering, “It’s when they got the water mains, I know it.”
Another, who has a jade choker at her throat, nods. “But she wasn’t in there, Blue, and there’s no use thinking she was.”
The third says nothing for a moment, blows out smoke impatiently. “She was competition.”
‘Blue’ ignores that. “I’m not worried. She just talked about the underground. Said it was the place to hide.”
“We don’t get business if we hide,” the third one says, and then spots Buffy. “Speaking of.”
Buffy blushes but she’s lost, so probably best to swallow whatever pride is left. She waves half-heartedly. “Hi.”
The girl with the jade choker takes a look and smiles. Her voice is breathy. “My God. It’s just like Sappho said—‘in the spring twilight, the full moon is shining, girls take their places, as though ‘round an altar.’ She’s splendid, ain’t she?”
“Who? The poet or the girl?”
“I’m still here,” Buffy says, uncertain of the situation. “Just—looking for directions.”
“Or maybe a girl?”
“Huh?”
The girl with the black hair reaches out, takes her hand to shake it. “I’m Blue, our resident poet here is Kate and that there—“ she cocks her head at the one blowing smoke in all of their faces, “is Margot. What’re you looking for? Cause directions—that’s the best one we’ve heard all week. Don’t worry, cricket, we’re quiet. There won’t be any trouble.”
“But—“ she pauses. “Directions are what I want.”
“At this time of the night?” Kate asks. “Which one of us do you like? Cause if it’s me, I promise ya, it’ll be a good one.”
“Ohhhh,” Buffy suddenly understands, and wishes Willow were here to navigate the conversation. “I’m not—I mean, you—with girls?”
“I only do girls,” Blue says. “So does Kate. Margot isn’t as particular.”
“I need money,” Margot finally says. “Bodies are all the same in the dark.”
“Not in the light, though,” Kate smiles.
“I didn’t think there’d be much of a market for—“ Buffy stops herself, really wonders if she wants to go any further. “I mean, good for you.”
“It is good, cricket,” Blue laughs and leans against the window of the clothing shop behind them. “You’d be amazed. You really are lost, then?”
“Yes, couldn’t be more,” Buffy sighs with relief. “Woolwich?”
“Next left, follow the river and stop when you get to the boardwalk on Trecangate Crescent,” Margot says, looking bored. “That’s the beginning of Woolwich. Specific houses, I can’t help you with.”
“S’ok,” Buffy says. “More than ok.” Although she’s in a hurry, she can’t help herself. “What were you guys talking about—what about the water mains?” The words remind her of a map she saw in Giles’ office once, of an older Sunnydale. Here be the churches, here are the witches, here be the water mains, here dwell the warlocks. “Apologies for the eavesdropping.”
Blue bites her lip. “They bombed the tunnels during the last blitz. It got the water mains.”
“People died,” Margot adds succinctly. “Drowned.”
“Maybe one of our friends,” Kate says. “We can’t find her.”
Margot lights another cigarette, carelessly dropping her other one and stamping out the embers. “Our friend Rachel works for the Auxiliary. She sewed a baby together last night.” She blinks. “They don’t care who they hurt.”
Foresight is a terrible thing, and she swallows painfully. “Thanks for the help.”
“Anytime,” Blue replies. The other two nod at her, and she walks away.
+
14 Trecangate is a monolith on dry land. Buffy stares up, up at it, remembering Giles’ words on the plane. It is tall and grey – the windows look like slabs of mirrors, cut into rows. Over the years, they have changed the charms to repel any civilians – before the explosion the building masqueraded as a bank, except without a single customer or pound note. There are two towers, both for observation and study. The left is used by Gale Tessera, the Council astronomer, and the right is for the private use of Quentin Travers. She can see the towers, faintly, with no black tape to mar their glassed windows. Of course, they wouldn’t need it. Why fear bombs when you have a handy charm to repel civvies? Giles’ continues to whisper from the future. The top floor houses Travers and his assistants, the remaining floors are made up of offices for the underlings. In the very core of the building there is a large conference room where the annual meetings take place—it looks like a peach halved, two semi-circles, joined by a table. The lobby leads off into a massive underground research facility and library, the lengths of which I have not even witnessed. Some speak of it has more of a subterranean world—of course, I am speaking in the present tense. I should say that there was a library—with over three million volumes of literature on the supernatural and the underworld. I suspect most of the books have been reduced to shreds. It is as if he is speaking in her ear. She follows the lines of the building, mapping out a route.
It is like that map. Here be the lobby, here is the library door, here be the conference room, here dwells the snake. Aka: Quentin. She traces the air with her finger, painting the building with a line, from point A to point B. But was the right tower his office? Or did he just use it for study and whatever else weird spooky people get up to? Would the safe be there? What if the book was somewhere else? But, no. She was sure it had to be under Travers’ beady gaze. The magic between those pages was too powerful for mere mortals. And if there was anybody with a god complex, it was Quentin.
Wait—
Staring up at the building, Buffy suddenly has a thought. A person-shaped thought. Why is she assuming Quentin Travers is still in charge? Wouldn’t it be someone else? 1942 is a pretty sizable time away from her time. Unless--- is he a time traveler too? Did Hannah and Sabina mention his name? She realizes she’s over-thinking. The night air chills her and she shivers, rubbing her arms.
Walking up to the door, she presses her palm against the wood. A hum, like bees. Buffy wonders about windows being open or perhaps a convenient sewage tunnel to wander through, and just when she is turning away to look, the door opens. A man steps out from the darkness, lit only by the burning stars in the sky. He is short, thick around the neck, and bullet-eyed. Wearing only a black robe and gold rings on every finger, he looks like a very crazy Hugh Hefner.
“Go.”
Buffy thinks fast. “I need to look--“
“You aren’t wanted here,” he says low, cool. “Go.”
“I just need—“
Snap. His fist lashes out, so completely, so viciously, so suddenly, that she doesn’t have time to react, and it catches her smack in the cheek. Flying through the air, she is only dimly aware of the hot blood on her face, and the night flowing past. Her eyes begin to close and she thinks—drugs, there were drugs in his rings—before everything folds itself up around her and she is flat on the cobblestone, imagining a better ending.
+
A voice.
“You’re ok, just relax.”
Cotton beneath her. Softness. A bed? Great, she is about to be raped. Did the rings have roofies in them? Did they have roofies in 1942? But no, not Hugh Hefner’s voice. She shifts, groans at the sick throb through her head, at the gunmetal taste of blood in her mouth. Opening her eyes gingerly, she blinks, adjusting to the light by her bedside. A candle, flickering. The voice is just beyond, in the darkness. She is in a bedroom, bleeding over the sheets; she can see red droplets on the floor too. A path, like the breadcrumbs left by Hansel and Gretel.
“Wha?”
“Shhhh.”
He steps into the glowing light of the candle-flame and she breathes in sharply. “Oh--- my God, did you get dropped in here too?”
Angel looks confused and wary. He steps forward, presses a sopping cloth to her cheek. “Have we met before?”
Oh. Past Angel. Can of worms, everywhere. She looks up, at the razor cheekbones and the shy smile, not yet seen. He bathes her cheek with the cloth, staring down at her. She realizes, for the first time, that she did not get into the Watcher’s Council building, and she realizes, for the first time, how easily she was repelled. Grief and panic, they cleave into one, like bodies during a fight or a fuck, and she whispers.
“No, you just remind me of somebody I know.”
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Date: 2008-05-19 04:54 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-01 08:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-19 06:30 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-01 08:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-20 03:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-07-01 08:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-20 11:09 pm (UTC)I love the dream she has about Spike. It seems to sum up their relationship - she's curious and wants more even as she violently wishes it to end.
Even more questions! Who was the mysterious stranger who easily repelled her form the council's door.
Having even a chat with past Angel is going to prove a minefield for Buffy, I suspect.
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Date: 2008-07-01 08:05 pm (UTC)Thanks so much for continuing to comment!!!!! *loves on you*
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Date: 2008-05-21 09:06 pm (UTC)You are so yummy. So is this fic. Love it.
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Date: 2008-07-01 08:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-27 07:45 am (UTC)Seriously, your writing style is beyond awesome. I am completely sucked in.
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Date: 2008-07-01 08:03 pm (UTC)