hellowonderland | Oh, new fic, y'all.

Title: Conclamo (1/10)
Author: Trixie
Disclaimer: Joss owns them, folks. I believe that’s been established.
Rating: R
Summary: When her child goes missing, Buffy is forced into a whirlwind she cannot control.
Pairings: Buffy/Angel, Buffy/Wesley

The house seems
to circle around you
slowly. I circle around you, a wild
animal near a fire. I remember
I would kill for you.

- Sharon Olds “Portrait of a Daughter”

The table in the police station feels like knotted ice beneath my finger tips. I trace the edges of the papers spread like fans, and feel their sides slice into my thumbs. A paper cut is such a small sting, but it feels like fire. I am glad for it, in a way. My stomach is floaty and unhinged and I feel as if it might come apart at any moment. I can taste the cornflakes I ate this morning. I can taste Angel’s sperm from last night. I went down on him and then we fell asleep.

A police officer hands me some coffee. It smells like dirt. I stare at the bowels of the cup, its murkiness. It reminds me of the shimmering asphalt on hot days in LA. I take a sip. Its only polite.

“Ms. Summers.”

“Buffy.”

The officer’s name is “Bob Arthur”. Two first names. “All right. Buffy. Tell me a little bit about your daughter.”

“Why?”

He gives me a quizzical glance. “It will help us to find her.”

“Her name is Perdita.” I pause and smile. “I named her that because I love 101 Dalmatians. You know that Disney movie?” I don’t wait for Bob Arthur to respond. “I love how they all come together to help each other. They’re lost but they don’t mind because they’re a family. I named my daughter Perdita after the Mother Dalmatian. A lot of people think I’m crazy. Even my husband. But I think it’s a really pretty name.”

“Very pretty.”

“She has dark hair and green eyes. Her two front teeth are missing. There’s a little scar on her right shoulder from when she fell and cut herself on a rock. Angel dressed her this morning.” Panic seizes my throat. “I don’t even remember what she was wearing.”

“Your husband already told us,” he says gently.

“What was she wearing?”

He consults a sheet in front of him. “Pink pants and a red top with pink sneakers.”

“That clashes. Why would he put that on her? Perdita didn’t even like those pink pants. They were a gift. From someone with bad taste. It must have been Willow.”

“Ms. Summers…”

“Buffy.”

“Drink your coffee. I’m going to talk to your husband again.”

My head lolls back a little. I look up at the ceiling. A few red blotches adorn the white paint. It looks like blood, but I can’t tell. I remember telling Perdita once that her blood was actually blue and that’s why the veins in her arms looked funny. She has such little arms. They remind me of Dawn’s. Coltish limbs and a frantically beating pulse that feels hot against my skin when I gather her up.

I feel strange. Like I’m swimming through syrup. My breath is hot and thick and I continue to stare at the ceiling. It gets closer and closer. When Angel and I got married, I didn’t even want children right away. I wanted to keep him all to myself. No responsibility. Just sex and discovery and mundane things like buying groceries and gardening and arguing.

I had a miscarriage in the first year. I felt guilty. Like I’d caused it by not wanting babies. As if he subconsciously knew he wasn’t wanted and ripped his way out in a mess of clotted blood and tiny little bones. I remember bringing Perdita home from the hospital. She cried for days. I hated her. Angel laughed at me. He kept making me toast with butter and those salty, creamy scrambled eggs. He took Perdita from me and rocked her to sleep, murmuring Gaelic endearments. I remember asking him what he was saying. He was surprised. He hadn’t even known he was speaking another language.

Did I make her scrambled eggs this morning before school? No. Cereal. Cinnamon Toast Crunch. She had a little milk moustache. She was banging her feet against my chair. I told her to stop. I packed her lunch in her backpack. It has a picture of She Ra on it. I bought it at a vintage shop. Angel took her to school. She disappeared. My daughter. I pinch my arm as hard as I can. Perdita Jane. I have never not known where she is. Never in my life. It didn’t begin until I knew her.

“Buffy?”

I sit up. “Angel.”

He reaches for me. His eyes are swollen with salt. I don’t think he really wants to hug me but feels as if he should.

“I hated Perdita, didn’t I?”

He flinches. “What are you talking about?”

“When we brought her home. She wouldn’t shut up. I hated her.”

“You didn’t.” His hands touch my hair. “No, you didn’t. You were just confused.”

“I hated her.” This is my fault. The unspoken words hang heavily between us. “She must be asking for me.”

Angel’s mouth tightens. “Don’t think about that.”

“What did Bob Arthur say?”

“Who?”

“The police officer. He has two first names.”

“He says they’re looking. They think we did it.”

“Did what?”

“Killed her.”

“Maybe they found out about your parents.”

He chokes a little on his own breath. It is still an adjustment for him. Breathing. Sometimes he forgets to. “What did you say?”

Little red dots sizzle before my eyes. “Nothing. I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry. But Perdita’s not dead.”

“She’s six years old.”

“What in the hell does that mean?”

“It means if she’s not dead… she’s… well, she’s been taken. I don’t know. I just don’t know.” Angel sits down in the chair I vacated. He presses his hand to his forehead. It is beaded with sweat. “I don’t know what to think. We can’t—we can’t lose her. I have to find her. If only… Cordelia was here… she would have gotten a vision. She could have helped.”

I hear a roaring in my ears. I feel as if every word he’s speaking is burning along my nerves. Synapses are firing but I can’t think. “Well, Cordelia is dead. Perdita isn’t.”

“I know.”

Does he? My knees go milky at the joints and I can still taste his semen in my mouth. I take one step and throw up all over the floor.

+ +

I’m dreaming. I know I am because I can see my Mother. She is sitting on a swing in the middle of the kitchen. Her legs are moving only slightly. She is smiling but not at me. Dawn sits beside her. I blow a kiss to the dead Summers women. It is such a shame, for they never come to me in my dreams but I must move on; I can hear Perdita calling me. It is in her slurry voice. She never speaks slowly. It is as if she is afraid everyone will lose interest if she doesn’t talk quickly enough. She stumbles over words and they come like a torrent. Angel wants to take her to a speech therapist but I think its sweet. It reminds me of my sister.

“Perdita?” it is a question. It is always a question. Angel? Dawn? Willow? What did you do? What did you DO?

She doesn’t answer. I have found they never do.

I walk down a long series of hallways. The floors are red. Suddenly so are the walls. The air smells like bleeding steak. My hands shake at my sides like fish on their hooks. As if they are wriggling for their freedom. I call out again; “Perdita?”

The wallpaper has faces. I stare at them. I run my fingers down the wall and my palm is scored by the teeth. Little traces of crimson on my skin and I begin to scream. But no sound emerges from my startled mouth. My throat bulges with the effort.

“Perdita?” a whisper. “Perdita?”

Someone grabs me. I whirl around but cannot see them. I feel a hot, tearing sensation and my throat opens up. They’ve run a knife into my vocal chords. A voice croons; “Hush now, baby. Don’t say a word.”

“Buffy? Buffy? Wake up. Wake up, love.”

My eyes open. They are heavy and burn with the weight of darkness. “What is it? Angel, what is it? Did they find her?”

His face melts into the shadows. “No. The police want to ask us some questions.”

I'll write a drabble of choice to the first person who can tell me what "Conclamo" means. Not including you,