Joined: Jun 2008 Gender: Female Posts: 893 Location: In Hell... i.e. Pennsylvania Karma: 6
CFFC09: My December « Result #2 on Dec 24, 2009, 4:55pm »
A/N: This story is based upon just the title of the second prompt. I didn’t particularly like the lyrics, and the idea I had fit only with the title. Also, this is a collection of drabbles – 31 drabbles, to be exact, one for each day of the month. If you are unfamiliar with the term drabble, a drabble is a short, 100 word story. While they don’t take long to write, editing them and making sure that they are 100 words exactly is very time consuming, especially if you still want the stories to make sense. ;-) Anyway, just a warning, this one is not so bright and shiny, not so holly jolly. Perfect for today, right? Also, thanks to everyone who read and responded to Running Late. I’m glad it was well received, that the idea was appreciated and liked. Enjoy!
~Charlynn~
My December A Liason Holiday Collection of Drabbles
CFFC09 Prompt #2: December Makes Me Feel This Way
December 1st
He had worked late. Again. Jason wasn't sure if it was because of the holiday rush or because he just didn't want to go home. However, neither reason was a good excuse.
Moving through the house, he realized nobody was there. It was quiet, but, even when his family was home - the kids running around, his wife taking care of all of them, the silence still seemed to permeate the space.
In the kitchen, he found the note. Dinner in the oven, went to the movies, be back late. Love you.
He went to bed with an empty stomach.
December 2nd
He had always been a morning person. He liked to wake early and get his day started before others had a chance to hit the snooze button. As he looked at his wife that morning, her skin bathed in the pink, eastern light, a bare leg tossed carelessly out of the covers, he remembered why.
Reaching for her, he pulled her against him, nuzzled her neck. She smelled like grapefruit. Before he could lick the pulse point behind her ear, though, tasting her, she pushed him away. “Too much to do,” she mumbled, getting up.
He went to shave.
December 3rd
“Thanks for meeting me for coffee,” his wife greeted him.
He smiled awkwardly. There was no amusement or humor in the gesture. “You make it sound so formal.”
“Well, I know that you're busy.” He wasn't that busy with work, but, for some reason, Jason kept that little piece of information to himself. “Anyway, I wanted to run an idea by you. I thought that we'd split the shopping duties this year. You'd take the kids, and I'd buy for our families. It'll save time.”
He didn't like the idea, but he didn't protest it either.
December 4th
He took the stairs two at a time. The kids were finally asleep, and Jason was looking forward to spending time with his wife. It seemed as though he never saw her anymore... even when they were in the same room. He missed her; he missed someone missing him.
“Oh, good, there you are.” His wife was wrapping presents, and there was Christmas music on in the background. “I wanted to remind you to buy that doll for Zoe tomorrow. The toy store just got a shipment in, and they'll sell out quickly.”
He nodded before turning around.
December 5th
The toy store was a labyrinth, and he didn't have time to look down every single god-damned aisle. Why his wife insisted upon him...
“You look lost.”
He couldn't help it. His lips twitched as he watched the pretty brunette before him bounce on a rubber ball practically half her size. It was blue, matched her eyes, and her hair still sparkled with melting snow flakes.
“Pull up a ride,” she instructed, nodding towards the other balls lining the bottom shelf, “and I'll give you a tour.”
An hour later, when he left, Jason's hands were empty.
December 6th
He took a different route to work the next day. He told himself it was out of boredom, but the lie was cold comfort. Really, he was looking for her. As he drove, he kept an eye out for the woman from the toy store. It was almost as if he knew she'd be there somehow.
When he spotted her, he smiled and pulled over, insisting upon giving her a ride. She agreed on the contingency that she had free reign over the radio. Yesterday, he rode on a rubber ball for her. Obviously, today he could deny her nothing.
December 7th
He was in the middle of a particularly appealing fantasy involving his desk, the woman from the toy store, and a pair of cashmere gloves when the object of his desire strode into his office, unannounced and uninvited, holding the doll he had forgotten to purchase two days prior.
“How did you know...?”
Shrugging, she answered, “shopper's intuition. Now, grab your coat. I'm kidnapping you. I told your secretary that you hired me as a personal shopper. You're not going to make a liar out of me, are you?”
Credit card debt had never looked so damn appealing.
December 8th
Her hair was in lopsided pigtails, tied up with curled red and green ribbon, she had random pieces of wrapping paper stuck to her clothes, including a piece taped to her pert, round ass that his gaze kept straying towards, and her face was flushed with a warmth and enthusiasm that he found contagious.
He'd never before been so hard in his entire life.
Without thinking, he leaned across the gift he was attempting (and failing) to wrap, connected his mouth with hers, and kissed her. It was awkward, and sloppy, and surprised them both.
But only the first time.
December 9th
He only had an hour for his lunch break; he'd already been sitting on her front step for an hour and thirteen minutes. Despite the fact that his car was parked on the curb, he waited outside, allowing the snow to seep through his pants.
When she got home, practically skipping down the sidewalk, she didn't look shocked at all to see him there. In fact, she looked downright pleased.
Sashaying by him, she unlocked the door while grinning crookedly in his direction. “So, are you coming in or what? We need to get you out of those pants.”
December 10th
“You've never done this before, have you?”
“No, and I find it humiliating,” Jason complained.
She giggled. “Not one for trying new things, huh?”
“Let's just say that I'm not known for my creativity.”
“Oh, it's nothing new. In fact, it's an ancient art. Books have been written on it. If you want to see some pictures...”
“That's alright,” he interrupted her, grumbling. “I can figure it out on my own.”
When they were finished, he was a mess – disheveled, sticky, and oddly sore. Who knew making paper chains was so complicated?
December 11th
He was still trying to steady his breathing when she scrambled out of bed, running out of the room unabashedly naked. When she returned, she carried two paper towels and handed one to him.
“What's this,” he asked without looking.
“Breakfast,” she answered around the bite inside her mouth before climbing back into bed.
Unwrapping his napkin, Jason found a fudge brownie inside. “Chocolate... for breakfast?”
“Brain food,” she answered, intent upon her snack. Before she could eat more, though, he tackled her to the mattress, tickling her.
Her laugh was the only sustenance he needed.
December 12th
She had the cutest toes he'd ever seen. They were small but elegantly long and graceful, and Jason feared he might be mildly obsessed with them as he carefully washed her feet. Instead of working, he was sharing a bath with a woman he barely knew, with a woman he knew better than he knew himself.
Looking up, he broke the comfortable silence. “What's your name?”
In response, she simply shook her head no. When he went to complain, the foot he wasn't cleaning started to do decidedly dirty things to him beneath the water.
He forgot his question.
December 13th
Jason was just about to step in and end the rather heated argument his two kids were having about nothing in particular when he spotted her out of the corner of his eye. She slipped out of the diner, though, before he could even smile in her direction.
When the waitress brought them their food, she handed him a note that simply read Sorry. There was absolutely no reason for her to apologize; their accidental meeting had been innocent.
But, for the rest of the night, he worried that, in her distraction, she'd forget to eat. She did that sometimes.
December 14th
She met him at the door looking pale, tired, and grouchy.
“You can't come in tonight. I have cramps.”
Jason nearly tripped over his astonishment. Despite nearly ten years of marriage, his wife still tiptoed around feminine issues, and here was this woman so bluntly talking about her period after only knowing him for less than two weeks. It was refreshing.
“We don't have to have sex,” he told her. “I just want to spend time with you.”
She smiled, a small, timid gesture compared to her wide, beaming grins. “How do you feel about Alias?”
December 15th
“What is that?”
It was impossible for her not to hear the disgust in his voice. “It's the tree I picked out.”
Jason chuckled. “It's the rattiest one here.”
“Which only means it'll appreciate a nice home more than the others,” she retorted, playfully sticking out her tongue.
When he returned home that night, carrying a similar tree to give to his wife, she met him with an odd look. After he explained the tree appreciation logic, she ordered him to throw it in the garbage where it belonged.
He took it to work the next morning.
December 16th
It was almost dark, and they were on the docks, watching the ships in the harbor. The wind was crisp and the atmosphere too cold to snow, and Jason could tell that she was freezing. However, she wouldn't let him hold her, for they were in public. The distance between them was making his skin feel too small.
“We always do stuff I want to do,” she complained, catching him off guard.
He thought that would have been a good thing. “Sooo...?”
“We should do things you like, too.”
That's when he knew how much she cared.
December 17th
She was sitting in her back yard when he got to her place, smoking. He had never seen her smoke, he had never tasted smoke on her breath, and he'd never smelled smoke on her body before. He felt unnerved.
“Something wrong?”
“Huh?”
He nodded towards her smoldering cigarette before sitting down beside her on the swing. “Why are you smoking?”
Softly, she whispered, “I guess I needed a reminder.”
He should have asked her of what, but all he could think about in that moment was kissing her, so he did. She tasted like danger.
December 18th
They were lounging in bed, their bodies still hopelessly entwined. He was naked, and she had on a short, crimson silk robe. It was untied.
Despite the fact that she had seen him with his kids, that he had never once taken off his wedding ring in her presence, not even when they had sex... like they had that afternoon, Jason still felt compelled to confess, “you know that I'm married, right?”
“Yeah, but I'm still glad you told me.”
Despite her admission, his conscience still felt weighed down; he still felt guilty... but not towards his wife.
December 19th
They were on their third round of pool and beer when she suddenly fell silent. Per her request, he had taken her out that evening. They were doing something he enjoyed but in the next town over.
“You okay?”
It took her several long seconds to focus her gaze upon him, to blink owlishly. “Yeah, why?”
Jason immediately started to laugh. After all her rambling, all her giggling, all her teasing, he never would have pegged her for a quiet drunk. “Come on,” he told her, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “Let's get you home.”
December 20th
Bending to place a kiss upon her forehead, Jason instructed, “rise and shine,” before lowering a breakfast tray onto the bed beside her.
Groggily, she asked, “what's this?”
“Huevos rancheros, toast, a giant cup of coffee, and aspirin.”
Sighing appreciatively, she sat up in bed. “Hmm... perfect. Why the special treatment?”
He granted himself another kiss, this time stealing it from her lips before standing up straight. “It's blackmail,” he informed her. “You and I are going to have a chat soon.”
He meant it to be a promise; it sounded like a threat.
December 21st
He had only one foot in the door when she grabbed him by the collar, spun him around, slammed the door, and dropped to her knees. Jason was so taken aback that, by the time his brain was capable of forming words, she already had her talented mouth around his dick, her hand pumping him.
When he had arrived at her place that evening, he had every intention of talking to her – about them, about what they were doing, about her name. She obviously had other plans, though, and who was he to argue with a very persuasive woman?
December 22nd
For the first time, he let himself into her house. After searching all the rooms downstairs, he found her in the spare bedroom, the one place he'd never been in before. It didn't take him long to realize why.
She used it as her studio.
Although he didn't want to interrupt, he could no longer ignore the question that had been bothering him for days. “Why don't you ask me to leave her?”
Without looking up from her canvas, her back to him, she asked in return, “why don't you offer?”
He didn't say goodbye; he just left.
December 23rd
“Icicle lights are so passe.”
“At least they're better than the tacky figurines.” For the past two hours, she had been critiquing Christmas decorations. They were nearing his own house, though, so he started to slow down.
“Hey, grandpa, are you suddenly dyslexic? The speed limit's 40 not four.”
In response, he said, “that's my place.”
Immediately, the atmosphere in the car became tense. “Take me home.”
For the rest of the night she wouldn't speak to him, and it was obvious to Jason that he had broken some unvoiced rule.
He wasn't sorry.
December 24th
He couldn't believe she started talking while he was going down on her.
“I want you to do something for me tomorrow.”
In response, he increased the tempo of his tongue and inserted a second finger.
Although she moaned appreciatively, she still managed to gasp, “I want you to find something new to love about your wife. Maybe she's changed, but so have you.”
Angered that she was bringing her up now, he pinched her clit. Hard. She bucked, screamed, and twisted in sheer pleasure. “And don't come see me either.”
He stood up, leaving her unfulfilled.
December 25th
“I thought I told you not to come here today.”
Despite her words, he knew she was glad to see him. Her aroused nipples were visible through the thin material of the t-shirt she wore. His t-shirt.
With his hands on her hips, he pushed her back into the living room, kicking the door shut behind him. “I couldn't stay away. I did what you said; I made love to my wife, but I couldn't get off until I closed my eyes and pictured you beneath me instead.”
“That's a problem,” she haltingly whispered.
“I know.”
December 26th
They were flat on their backs, panting, on the kitchen floor. “Surely, that performance deserves you telling me your name.”
Instead, though, she sat up and reached for her shirt. “I'm leaving,” she told him without meeting his suddenly panicked gaze. “I'll be gone by the first.”
Haltingly, he challenged, “so, what? This has meant nothing to you?”
She shrugged. “It is what it is.” Surprising him, she added, “if you really want to call me something, call me December. After all, it's really all you'll ever know of me.”
He hated her then.
December 27th
He was having a meeting when he saw her walk past. She was completely unaware of his presence, and all he could think about was her cold detachment from the morning before.
“If you'll please excuse me,” he politely offered his client, smoothly slipping out the front door.
Seconds later, he caught her by the elbow and swung her into the closest alley, hitching her skirt while he fumbled with his own belt. When he pushed roughly inside of her, he hit her womb.
He climaxed after only five awkward thrusts; she cried into his shoulder, finally breaking emotionally.
December 28th
If it wasn't for the wedding band that symbolized his union to another woman and the packed boxes littering her bedroom, Jason would have thought that they were a happily married couple. As he quietly read the paper, she sat beside him, gloriously nude, painting her toenails. The polish was black, befitting the dark cloud hovering above them.
“Where will you go,” he asked, never looking up from the sports page.
She shrugged, dipping her brush back into the ebony lacquer. “I'm not going to wait for you.”
Meaning, he translated silently to himself, that it didn't matter.
December 29th
They were packing up her art supplies when his phone rang.
“Answer it.”
Glancing at the caller I.D., Jason argued, “it's her.” She didn't seem to care, though. Sighing, he obeyed her wishes. “Yeah,” he greeted, unconcerned about how rude he sounded.
She was leaving in less than 48 hours. The last thing he wanted was for their time together to be interrupted.
Finally, after several minutes of just pretending to listen, he said goodbye, whispering, “I love you.” His intense gaze never left hers.
They both knew he was no longer talking to his wife.
December 30th
This time, he was the one crying.
She had almost been asleep when he rolled closer to her, wrapped his arms around her, and angled his hips to slide inside of her once more. His body ached with pleasure, with fatigue, with sorrow, but it hurt worse to be separated from her.
With his left hand cupping her right breast and his right hand buried in the downy curls at the apex of her thighs, Jason begged, “please, tell me your name.”
Although he couldn't see her reaction, he could feel her smile. It only made him cry harder.
December 31st
When he woke the next morning, she was already gone. The only sign that she had, in fact, been there with him was the twisted blankets wrapped around his legs. He stood from the pallet they had made the night before in her bedroom, taking his fury, pain, and rage out on the walls.
Thirty minutes later, he walked into his house. “You're back early from your business trip,” his wife commented absently, offering him a genuine if not distracted smile.
When he pulled her to him and kissed her, he could still taste His December on his tongue.
Joined: Jun 2008 Gender: Female Posts: 893 Location: In Hell... i.e. Pennsylvania Karma: 6
Winter Solstice Blues « Result #4 on Dec 21, 2009, 12:14pm »
A/N: We’re taking a break from our regularly scheduled program to enjoy a little Buffy and Angel holiday cheer. Before we get to the story, though, there are several points I need to explain. For one, I have not read the comics, so I do not know what happens after the final episode of Angel. What you will read in this story is simply one option… as is the plotline I devised for Illyria in this one shot. Also, I, in no way, tolerate the other relationships the latter seasons presented for Buffy and Angel. This becomes obvious with how I handle the lasting loyalty Angel feels towards Cordelia and Buffy feels for Spike. Although I enjoyed their characters during the early seasons, it’s safe to say that my fondness waned. If you are either a Cordelia fan, a Spike fan, or a fan of both of them, just be warned that you might not agree with or like everything presented in this story. Other than that, I hope you enjoy the fic. May your holiday season – whatever you choose to celebrate – be merry.
~Charlynn~
Winter Solstice Blues
Seven months later and still the biggest mystery in Los Angeles was what had happened to the Wolf, Ram, and Heart's private jet. Nobody asked about the dragon, or the demon hoards, or even about the law firm itself being destroyed twice in as many years, further proving her point that humans were incompetent, unworthy of the world they now controlled through nothing more than naively grand illusions and stupidity. The entire race deserved to be destroyed, and she had the mind and drive to do so, but, unfortunately, she no longer had the power.
At first, she had been content to rain her wrath down upon the evil which threatened the humans, not in some ill-gained sense of loyalty towards the shell she inhabited and the people the shell had cared for but simply as a means to an end. If she couldn't beat them, and she certainly had no desire to join them, then, at least, she could fight their enemies for them, especially given their absolute lack of capability to do so themselves. Quickly, though, after the most recent but certainly not the last apocalypse, such aggression had lost its appeal for Illyria.
For one, it was pointless. Despite what the warrior vampire claimed (even if she wasn't sure he believed it himself), there would always be another monster to battle. As long as there was good, there would be evil, which meant that as long as she continued to fight against said monsters, she would be exhausting her energies for nothing. It was a fruitless war. Yes, she liked death, and, yes, she liked administering it, but even she knew such empty deaths were unfulfilling.
Secondly, her team's numbers had been cut in half by their last great battle. Without Wesley, she had lost the one human she didn't entirely mind associating with. He had been useful and a fount of knowledge. If nothing else, he had also saved her life, albeit doing so by removing the majority of her power. And then there was the one who was pleasant to look at, the one with the bare, shiny head – Gunn, an adequate fighter for a human but in no way strong enough to serve at a god's side.
Only the two half breeds remained, two vampires with souls, no less. Of the two of them, she spent more of her time with Spike. He was amusing... in a lesser being sort of way. He had introduced her to tiny toy fighters controlled by buttons, and he was not adverse to the ideas of destruction and mayhem. Apparently, even with a soul, he did not possess much of a conscience, something she could appreciate. He had no qualms about stealing what he wanted, drinking too much and starting bar fights, and taking advantage of humans. In Illyria's opinion, they were his best qualities.
As for Angel, he was too somber, too serious. Despite the fact that she enjoyed killing things, unlike him, she did so for fun. He murdered monsters seeking redemption. Why anyone would ever apologize for their actions, she did not understand. Illyria was of the mind to own one's behavior; good or bad, it did not matter. However, unlike Angel, she was a god and did not have to answer to the powers. No matter, though, she still respected the warrior. He fought valiantly, and he, in part, had helped her to live again. If only he wasn't so intent upon protecting the human race, she'd be able to tolerate him more.
It didn't matter, though, because two half breeds and their everyday squabbles against evil were not enough to keep her interested in the mortal world. Add to that the fact that she now had superficial followers – humans who would dare to mimic her look but then run in fear when she ordered them to sacrifice themselves upon her alter, and Illyria had quickly tired of her new existence. Although she had been corporeal again for less than a year, she knew enough about the current age to realize she did not want to be a part of it and to believe that, given enough time, the human race would be obliterated and the earth would be fit again for her return.
Until then, though, she would rest. She would let go of the inhospitable shell she currently occupied and return to the well, not as a resident but as its new guardian. If she couldn't rule over the world, then she would rule over other gods, controlling their fates. As an incorporeal being, she wouldn't be subjected to the weaknesses of her human host, the frailties, and she would eventually return to her former level of power, materializing only when a threat presented itself and she would be forced to occupy its form temporarily. Before she could leave, though, Illyria felt an irrational, rather disgusting urge to offer her human... acquaintances one last parting gift each.
If she wasn't fundamentally against every single facet of their race's lifestyles, especially those that served to honor and worship other gods, then she would have considered her goodbyes to be Christmas presents, but such grotesquely sentimental gestures were beneath her, and, besides, she much preferred the celebration of the winter solstice anyway. Didn't humans realize their beloved Christmas was simply a substitute for an earlier, pagan holiday? They were fools, the entire lot of them.
Fools or not, though – Wesley, Gunn, Spike, and Angel, they were her fools, and, when she was gone, she wanted to make sure none of them forgot that fact. The only way she could do such a thing was to alter their lives, change the world for them, no small task considering the fact that two of them were dead humans and the other two undead half breeds completely incapable of remaining emotionally detached from their lesser, mortal counterparts. But she was a god, after all. If she could manage to slip to the Wolf, Ram, and Heart airfield between watching Wesley die and joining her team in the rather impressive alley battle, putting a glamour on the plane to hide it, its fuel tanks, its demon pilot, and a few of the law firm's other choice possessions in plain sight, then surely she could manage changing the very fate of the world.
~ * ~
“Blue, you look even more smug than usual,” Spike announced in lieu of a proper greeting when he opened his door to her. “What are you up to?”
She ignored him. While he certainly was a part of her plan, he did not need to know the various aspects of it. He did not need to know that she had already managed to speak to the shell's parents, pretending, once more, to be their daughter, comforting them one last time before 'Fred' was no longer her responsibility. He did not need to know that she had shipped a rather large box to one Rupert Giles, passing on to the leader of the new Watcher's Council the template books she had stolen on Wesley's behalf from the Wolf, Ram, and Heart offices. Whether or not this Rupert (what was with these humans and their odd names?) was worthy of Wesley's things, his knowledge, she did not know, but she was certain that Wesley would have wanted the tomes to be somewhere he deemed safe. And, finally, Spike did not need to know that she had managed to do in one evening what the visually pleasing one had failed to do during his entire lifetime: wipe out all the vampires from his neighborhood, if one could even refer to such a slovenly place by such a name.
Besides, Spike would be sullen that she had failed to invite him to such a party, and she was not of the mind to deal with his petty moods. She still had two more stops, following her visit with him, to make before she returned to the well, and her last two tasks would be the most difficult to accomplish of all but, appropriately, also the most important as well.
Speaking succinctly, Illyria immediately expressed the point behind her visit. “I am here to offer you a gift.” Unlike humans, she did not see the point in wasting words on pleasantries. Such banal customs of asking someone how they were or speaking of one's own health were nothing more than a poor use of one's time.
Animatedly, Spike said, “with that second skin you consider clothes that you're wearing, not that I'm complaining, mind you, I can tell you're not carrying a present on your person, so does that mean it's too big for even you to carry, Blue? I know,” he announced, slapping his hands together triumphantly. “You stole me a car.”
“Don't be ridiculous. Of course I am strong enough to lift and carry a car.”
“But you couldn't bring it inside. The doorways are too small,” he pointed out.
She was tiring of his meaningless chatter quickly, more quickly than she usually did given the press of time upon her. It was already the very early morning of December 24th, and she had every intention of being in England and safely ensconced in her well before the skies became even more clogged with holiday travelers the next day. “I did not steal for you a vehicle, Spike. Such an action would be beneath me, for even a half breed such as yourself should be able to manage such a simple theft. Rather, I come to you with a solution to your problem.”
“From where I'm sitting, love, there's more than one of those pestering me at the moment. Just which one exactly are you proposing you have the power to fix?”
“The fact that you are, once more, incorporeal,” Illyria told him. After the apocalypse, Spike had returned to his ghostly ways without any warning or explanation. Though he had survived the fight, helping to push back the demon hoards, he had lost the battle over his own body, unwillingly surrendering control of it to the powers he perpetually cursed. Though Spike claimed no knowledge as to why he was being punished so properly, Illyria knew the truth behind the half breed's evolution, and, though she did not care for such inconsequential human trivialities, she did relish the thought of one-upping Spike's powers that be.
“I have tired of my shell,” she stated, looking down momentarily to sneer at the unsightly mortal body. “Seeing as how I no longer have use of it, I am prepared to bequeath it to you. Though you will be human, you, at least, won't be an incorporeal demon, perhaps the only thing worse than actually being a human.”
“You mean I'll be a girl,” Spike declared hotly, obviously displeased with her offer. “I'd rather have a set of bit and tackle that my hand passes through than no set at all. How am I supposed to play tiddlywinks without my tiddle?” Backing away from her, he held up his hands in opposition. “No thanks. You can keep your shell, Blue. It's better to be a ghost of a man than a woman.”
“Very well,” she sighed. “Apparently, you care more for besting the warrior Angel than you do about the actual Shanshu Prophecy.”
“He wants that prophecy so he can be with Buffy,” Spike explained. “I can be with Buffy as a vampire without worrying about losing my soul. I just want to win the pretty prize to make sure that he doesn't get what we both want.” And that was why, no matter how much more fun Spike was, he was the lesser of the two half breeds. “That doesn't mean, though, that I'd be against the idea of you giving me a gift. I just don't want what's behind door number one.”
“I don't understand your reference.”
“It's a game show, love, from the seventies or some other decade of the past with horrendous fashion sense.”
“Did it involve the killing, maiming, or the torturing of humans,” she queried.
“Afraid not, Blue.”
“Then I am not interested in this thing you refer to as a game show.” Because she needed to be on her way soon, Illyria moved their conversation back to the previous topic. “If you do not want my shell, what is that I possess that you are interested in?”
“I wouldn't turn down you giving me that private jet you finagled out from underneath Wolfram and Hart. That would just kill Peaches and his over-inflated ego. Why, the only things bigger than his ego are his forehead and my...”
Interrupting him, Illyria questioned, “how do you know about that?”
“About you and the plane, Blue,” Spike asked. “Easy,” he responded, grinning wickedly and shrugging. “Back a few months when I introduced you to my friend Jose...”
“Mr. Cuervo, yes,” she remembered, “from the land of Tequila.”
“Mind like a steel trap you have there, pet,” Spike complemented, tapping his own head for emphasis. “Anyway, it was around the time that you kicked my ass for the right to eat the worm when you let it slip, you know, about you nicking the law firm's fancy toy. For the record, I just want you to know that I let you beat me that night. Couldn't properly introduce you to the joy that is a tequila hangover without allowing you to eat the tasty critter at the bottle of the bottle.”
She allowed him his grand illusions. After all, in a matter of hours, they would no longer be of any consequence. “Though I have grown tired of this shell, I still have use for the plane. You may not have it, half breed.”
“You aren't, perchance, a follower of Cher, are you there, Blue?”
“Your logic leaves me baffled, and I do not know of this god to whom you refer. Though it does not matter, for I am no one's follower.” During their entire discussion thus far, Spike had remained lounged upon his couch as she stood directly in front of him, hands upon hips, feet spread a shoulder length apart, battle ready at all times, but, needing to reach for something, she moved for the first time, bending at the waist to procure the device she kept tucked into the side of her left boot. “However, if it is only a means to one-up Angel that you desire...”
“You're bloody well right I want something to lord over the Poof's inordinately large head. The wanker's got it coming, as far as I'm concerned. He needs to be kicked down a peg or twenty, and, from where I'm sitting, I'm the best man for such a job.”
“Very well, then,” Illyria commented. With that, she thrust her recently retrieved device into Spike's gesturing hands. “Here, consider this my parting gift to you.”
“A mobile, Blue,” he questioned, frowning. “If I'm not mistaken, Angel already has one of these. In fact, he has a better one. How exactly is this supposed to help me best Peaches once and for all?”
Half breeds were entirely incapable of doing anything on their own. “When that device awakens, it sings to me, horrendously, I might add, in the warrior Angel's voice, something about a mortal named Mandy.”
“Oh, this is bloody priceless,” Spike crowed, suddenly extremely pleased with his present.
“Although I am perplexed by many aspects of your human world, I do understand the idea of embarrassment. I feel it every day, knowing that I must lower myself to associate with your kind, and your rival will never be able to explain or excuse the awful racket that machine makes. Use it, half breed,” she instructed him, “to keep Angel, as you say, in his place.”
Finally standing, Spike addressed her warmly. “If I wasn't afraid you'd eviscerate me for getting fresh on you, I'd kiss you right now, Blue. This is the best bloody gift anybody's ever given me.” Holding the device close to his chest where his former human heart now rested, unbeating, he pledged, “I'll treasure it always.”
“Then this is goodbye,” Illyria said, turning her back upon him. Allowing herself out of the small, basement apartment, she added, “I hope to never see you again.”
Spike might have said something in return, but she paid him no attention. With her final favor towards him complete, Illyria had already put the souled half breed out of her mind. Rather, she had more important things to think about, to focus her waning energies upon. Next, she had to confront Angel and his ridiculous notions of love, life, and self-punishment. While the vampire might be a good fighter, he was an idiot when it came to what he was fighting for.
~ * ~
Though he attempted to hide his disappoint, following the apocalypse, Angel had retreated back to his hotel, intent upon brooding over the fact that he was still a vampire and, apparently, no closer to attaining his Shanshu Prophecy than he had been before attempting to take down the Senior Partners of the Wolf, Ram, and Heart. At first, he had tried to explain the fact that he had signed the prophecy away in order to gain the favor and the trust of the Black Thorn, but Illyria had set him straight, railing against him for having the audacity to believe he had the power to alter the gods' plans, to give away something that actually belonged to the powers that they had simply deigned to be, in part, about him. As she had painstakingly pointed out, the prophecy still very much existed and always would, no matter what Angel did.
“Just show yourself in, Illyria,” he remarked caustically as she sauntered into the shadowed office he always seemed to be occupying unless he was out slaughtering a demon. “It's not like I'm working here or anything.”
“No, you're feeling sorry for yourself.” To argue his point, Angel nodded towards the mounds of books piled high upon his desk. “Do not insult my intelligence with lies and deceit,” she ordered him. “We both know that you on today of all days are not thinking about a case but rather the people you lost and the person you still want.”
Sighing wearily, the half breed asked her, “why are you here?”
“I have come because I am confused upon a matter, and I was hoping you'd be able to explain it to me. With Wesley dead, I fear that duty has now fallen upon your unworthy and probably incapable shoulders.”
She was lying, of course. Though she would not tolerate Angel lying to her, she had no qualms about doing so to him. After all, she was a god, and he was nothing more than part demon. He was lucky she wasn't forcing him to bow at her feet, let alone allowing him to speak at all in her presence. If she needed to speak untruths to engage him in introspective conversation, then she would.
By his silence, she understood him to be sympathetic to her request. “I am trying to understand this concept of love you mortals are so obsessed with,” Moving closer to his desk, Illyria leaned against it, lowering herself slightly so she could lock her gaze with his. “You shared relations with the human mutt, yes; you made love with her?”
“Her name’s Nina,” Angel corrected.
“You human place so much importance upon nonsensical labels. By calling her Nina, you do not tell me anything, but by calling her the human mutt, I know exactly what she is.”
Apparently ignoring her complaint, the half breed said, “Nina and I... we didn't... I had sex with her, Illyria.”
“So, it was not love, then,” she surmised. “You used her body for pleasure.”
Protesting, Angel stated, “it wasn't like that. I liked her. We were seeing each other,” but she could hear the weakness and lack of authority behind his words.
“You misunderstand me, vampire warrior,” Illyria responded. “I was not chastising your treatment of the werewolf. To the contrary, I admire your self-awareness and execution of gratifying your base needs.” Before he could counter her praise, she continued, “but this does not satisfy my curiosity; it does not answer my questions about love.” Spitting out the last word as if it were literally poison in her mouth, she continued, “while you did not love the human mutt, you do claim that you loved the dead seer, yes?”
Angel visibly flinched. “Yes, I loved Cordelia.”
“Why?” He stared at her, speechless, for several tense moments until Illyria pressed, “why did you love her?”
“I... she was my best friend!”
“Aw, yes, this companionable love that you speak of, you felt it for the shell, correct, and for Gunn, and Wesley, too? However, I do not speak of such friendly sentiments, for I have, in my own way, come to appreciate it. The love I speak of, the love I question you about, it is the romantic kind.”
“Alright, then,” Angel answered, rising to pace around his small office as he talked. “For one, I romantically loved Cordelia because of the way she cared for my son.”
“The son that she later had relations and conceived a child with.”
“No,” the half breed had the nerve to argue with her. “That wasn't Cordy. That was the thing she was possessed by.”
“Jasmine, I have heard of her. Her power was nothing compared to what mine should and could be.”
Ignoring her, Angel continued, “and I loved Cordy because she gave up being human for me. She took on the visions, and she took on being a demon so that she could show me my path from the powers and fight by my side.”
Illyria pretended to brighten. “I have read of this sacrifice in Wesley's journals. The dead seer was visited by the same guardian who later turned her into a higher being and allowed for Jasmine to gain control of her body at an earlier date. She was going to die as a result of her visions, her brain literally blowing out the back of her skull, but the powers gave her a second chance. She could either give back the visions and live the life of a famous actress or keep them and die. Initially, after overhearing your attempt to save her life, she, having her feelings hurt, chose to become a star. However, as fate sometimes has a way of working out, she later crossed paths with you anyway, noticed you had inherited the visions yourself and, as a result, had lost your mind, and decided to play hero and save you, all by requesting to become a demon so she could keep the visions herself.”
“See, that's exactly why I loved... love her,” Angel responded. “She gave up her dream for me.”
“No, not for you,” she argued, “but for herself and certainly not for the betterment of the world you fight so hard for. She chose her path in order to be your savior, not in an effort to help you save yourself. Can you not see the difference, warrior vampire?” As he fell silent, she stood up from where her arms were braced, turned around, and leaned back against the desk. “And, don't forget the fact the guardian which presented to her this option was the very same one who facilitated Jasmine's birth. In Wesley's journals, he questioned just when exactly Cordelia lost her free will. Was it when she became a higher power, was it when she chose to become a demon, was it when she moved to L.A., or could it have even been the moment she was conceived?” Shrugging her shoulders, Illyria, in a bored fashion remarked, “everything she felt for you and everything you've been manipulated into believing you feel for her could have been nothing more than an elaborate ruse.”
“No, you're wrong,” Angel defended, once more collapsing into his chair, but she could hear the confusion and the denial in his voice and the fact that he didn't completely trust in himself and what he was saying now at that point.
“So, that leaves us with the slayer, yes? You love her.”
He chuckled derisively. “I think, at this point, the whole world knows that I love Buffy.”
“You exaggerate your importance, half breed,” Illyria criticized. “Again, though, I ask,” she redirected their conversation, “why do you love her?”
This time, when he smiled, the gesture was sincere. The small grin that played itself upon the warrior vampire's lips was nostalgic yet firmly rooted in the present, alive with friendly warmth yet also crooked with undeniable lust. She had never quite seen such an expression upon Angel's face before. “There's no easy way to explain my feelings for Buffy, and there's a big part of me that wonders if I've even capable of not loving her.”
“Try to explain.”
“She gave me a purpose,” he shared, shrugging his shoulders. “Before her, I simply existed. For nearly a hundred years, I fed off rats, kept to the shadows, and survived only because I was too much of a coward to end my own life, but, from the moment I first saw her, I had a reason to fight. Suddenly, I had a purpose. I wanted, needed to make sure she stayed alive, that she was happy, and healthy, and that the weight of the world upon her shoulders did not become too heavy. And, then, when she returned my love, she gave me a second purpose: to redeem myself so that I could maybe, someday, become worthy of her love. She's why I'm alive, why I was able to come back from hell, why I didn't greet the sun when the first evil was tormenting me, why I can lose everybody else that I care for and still want to live because, somewhere in the world, she's out there fighting, too.
“That's why my soul loves her, but the demon does, too… in its own way. He's obsessed with her, craves both her body and her blood. He hates her for making him feel but loves her for how she did it, for her strength, and because she's the only human who has ever been his equal match. He's possessive of her, would kill anyone or anything that ever stood in his way from having her. Besides his own pleasure, she's all he thinks about, and most of his more pleasurable desires and thoughts revolve around her somehow anyway. There isn't a single part of me that does not belong completely and entirely to Buffy, but I'm sure you're going to argue with me, aren't you, Illyria,” he challenged her. Rolling his eyes, Angel added, “I'm sure you're going to find fault with me again and tell me that what I feel for Buffy isn't love.”
“No,” she defended. “To the contrary, I was going to question why it is that you are not with her if you love her so much.” Before he could answer, she pressed, “you fight for this Shanshu Prophecy, for this chance to live again as a human, but, yet, you refuse to live as a vampire. You mortals accuse me of being too literal, but you are the ones, you and Wesley, who translated the prophecy to mean to literally live again – to breathe. What if it simply meant that you, one day, as your reward for fighting in the apocalypse and saving the world, would embrace life again, would stop punishing yourself for your demon's so called crimes, and would return to your slayer's side, determined to make the most out of the love you share for each other? You lived once before when you were with her, you died when you left her, and, now, your chance to live again is simply there, waiting for you to take advantage of it before it's too late.”
Objectively, Angel pushed his chair back, reclining in it as he observed her still form before him. Finally, after several tense, silent moments, he responded, “but you're forgetting something important here, Illyria. You're forgetting my curse, and the fact that, if I'm with Buffy, I risk losing my soul again, and all the other reasons why I left her.”
“Wesley commented about your sacrifice in his writings, how you wanted the slayer to live a normal life with sunshine, and picnics, and babies, but I think you are an imbecile.”
His chair dropped forward, and he sat up straight. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, half breed,” Illyria countered. “How can you think that a warrior of the light would ever be able to live a normal life? She can't enjoy the sunshine when she fights all her battles at night, slayers should not have children, and, as for these picnic things you are obsessed with, I have no idea what they are, but, surely, they're not important enough to sacrifice the very thing that makes both you and the slayer better warriors.”
Although she had not intended for the half breed to still be arguing with her over something as insignificant as his curse after she managed to clear the delusion from his gaze concerning both his heart and his prophecy, her earlier visit to Spike facilitated her dismissal of his last remaining protest quite nicely. “As for your curse,” she said, “after the parting gift I gave Spike, I don't think such a simpering, human idea of perfect happiness will ever be possible for you again.”
Suddenly fully alert and with his demon carefully strangled with a tight lease, Angel demanded, “what do you mean,” gritting the words out between clenched teeth.
“I have tired of this faulty shell and weary of this humanity you fight so steadfastly for and have decided to go back to the well.”
“That wasn't what I meant, Illyria,” the half breed dared to bark at her. “What did you give Spike?”
“I simply handed over to him a device the shell possessed before me, something that, if you ever dare to become too happy, I'm positive Spike will use against you in the most humiliating of ways.”
“And let me guess,” he realized. “You're not going to tell me what this device is?”
“How will you be able to surmount it if you are unaware of its powers,” Illyria asked rhetorically. “Now, if you will excuse me, warrior Angel, I have one last task to complete before I can be rid of this mortal world once and for all.”
He didn't stop her. In fact, he was probably relieved to see her leave, just as she was relieved by the knowledge that she'd never see the half breed again. Now, all she had to do was confront the slayer with her own similar disillusions, shatter them, and leave her ever-lasting, unseen mark upon humanity. It wasn't a kingdom erected in her name or a population comprised entirely of those who worshiped her, but that day would come again, sooner than the current powers expected if she were to have her way, and, in the meantime, if she could unite the only two forces on earth worthy of her respect, then so be it, the powers, and their prophecies, and anything else that stood in her way be damned.
~ * ~
It was nearing ten o'clock, and the stores were about to close, but Illyria did not want to confront the slayer in the presence of others. She was waiting for the warrior to leave the crowded shopping center, but Buffy was tenacious, refusing to cease her purchasing until she was absolutely forced to do so. She was running behind on her holiday shopping or incapable of refusing a last minute sale. Either way, though, it was obvious to Illyria that slayers were not exempt from human frailties.
“Look, I've tried to be patient. I thought, if I just ignore my stalker shopper, she'll go away, but I've had it up to here, lady. I don't care who you are, or who you plan on giving this jacket to if you get your grubby little paws on it, but I am not putting this coat down. It's Italian leather. If you think I'm going to sacrifice my retail happiness for yours, then you have a rude awakening coming your way.”
As the slayer finished her impassioned speech, she whirled around to confront her audience, her action a blur of golden hair and skin so bright it hurt Illyria's eyes. Why the warrior Angel insisted upon wanting a life in the sun when the woman he loved was a living and breathing human visual representation of it, she would never know. But she watched in amusement, of course not displaying her silent laughter, as Buffy's eyes widened, her shock apparent.
“You're so... blue!” With a slight twinge of cattiness entering her voice, she pressed, “and don't you think any more leather in that ensemble would just be tacky? Trust me; by me not giving you this jacket, I'm saving you from a terrible fashion faux-pas.”
Cocking her head at the warrior's obvious quick wit and perky banter, Illyria could admit to herself how someone like Angel might find such behavior endearing, especially given his predilection for darker, more somber moods himself, but she had little time for such small talk. She had a well calling her name, a well of gods that stretched from one end of the earth to the other, just waiting for her to rule over it.
“Slayer,” she attempted only to be interrupted by the target of her address.
By slapping a hand over Illyria’s mouth, Buffy stemmed the words that had been prepared to leave her lips. “Ssh,” the warrior hissed. Ix-nay on the layer-say, apiche-cay?” Screwing up her brows in bewilderment, Illyria simply waited for Buffy to explain herself. “It's pig Latin. It's the closest thing to a foreign language that I can speak, and, since I can't speak Italian, sometimes I try to use that when the locals don't comprehend my English. But what I was saying was cut the crap about the slayer business. I'm supposed to keep my secret identity just that. Secret. On the down low. Underwraps.”
“You are a strange human, and I find your way of talking to be very perplexing, but you are far more interesting to me than any mortal I have, so far, come in contact with. I only wish, Buffy, that you would have been in Los Angeles during these past few months. You might have alleviated some of the monotony of my existence.”
Smiling brightly, the warrior said, “thanks, I think. Anyway, it sounded like a compliment, and a girl just doesn't have one of those handed to her every day, what with living with her sister and a geek who gets more excited about his action heroes than he does at the chance of actually getting some action. Wait,” Buffy stopped herself from continuing her ramble. “Did you just say L.A.?”
“Yes, this shell that I inhabit,” Illyria answered, gesturing towards her body, “was from there. When I took over her form, I remained there as well.”
“Let me guess, you know Angel, or Angel sent you, because, let me tell you, lady, you're too weird not to be associated with my... with him. And did you just refer to your body as a shell?”
“I am a god. To become corporeal once more, I took over this form from a human girl, but the mortal body was too frail to contain the vastness of my power. To survive, most of my power had to be stripped from me, but, still, I remain in my host, this shell. As for the warrior you speak of, Angel, I am acquainted with him. He fought with me in the great battle.”
“Soooo,” Buffy drawled out. “Needless to say, I doubt you came here to steal my jacket from me.”
Illyria narrowed her eyes. “Still you persist with this fascination with clothes even after all that I have revealed to you.”
“What, about you being a god? So what. I've fought a god before, and I beat her.”
“By dying,” she reminded the slayer. “And I read about your battle against the god you called Glory in Wesley's journals. She was weak, and she was superficial, and she was no match for the power I am capable of.”
As Buffy walked off, somehow knowing that Illyria would follow her and further annoying the god, she remarked, “you're pretty full of yourself, aren't you?”
“One could say that your own pride is inflated, Slayer.”
Without warning, Buffy whirled around to confront her. “Look, I asked you once already, nicely, too, to not call me that. Obviously, you have some beef you need to discuss with me, and I'll be all about the talking and the listening if you just put the brakes on for five minutes while I buy my coat, alright?”
Nodding once to show her acceptance, Illyria commented, “as you wish, warrior of the light.”
“Yeah, calling me that isn't any better than what you were calling me before.”
She didn't respond to the slayer's complaint, instead choosing to study her actions as she moved. Despite the fact that she wasn't fighting, it was obvious that Buffy possessed a tremendous amount of self-confidence. Unlike others Illyria had met since she took over the shell, the slayer did not fear her in the slightest. It was both a compelling aspect of her personality and an infuriating one. Her body was a fluid machine, graceful and lethal, capable of great strength and tenderness. She approved of her as a mate for the warrior vampire.
Once she was finished making her purchase, Buffy turned to her and suggested, “come on, I'll buy you a gelato while you tell me why you're here.”
“Gelato?”
“Sorry, that's the one Italian word I'm very familiar with. It's like ice cream. Granted, they don't have cookie dough fudge mint chip here, but there are still plenty of other delicious flavors.”
As they made their way out onto the crowded Roman street, Illyria informed her, “I do not need human sustenance to survive.”
“And we humans don't eat ice cream for sustenance; we eat it because it tastes good.”
In the end, she allowed the slayer to purchase her some gelato, and, admittedly, she did enjoy the burst of sensation she received whenever she placed a dollop of the cool, frozen concoction on her tongue. Once they were seated, though, she quickly got to the point of her visit. “If Angel were to come to you tomorrow and tell you that he was ready to be with you, you would turn him away, wouldn't you, not because of that ridiculous baking analogy you explained to him seven months...”
“How do you know about that,” Buffy demanded.
“While I may be a god, and while I may be above the trivial foibles of human existence, I do have ears.”
“And cute ones, too,” the slayer complimented her. “You know, they don't stick out too far, and they're not too big.”
“My shell was sufficient in this area, yes. However,” Illyria refocused their conversation, “your refusal to be with Angel would not be because of your lack of cookies but because of your misplaced guilt and loyalty towards Spike, am I right?”
“What do you know of...”
Tiring of Buffy's constant questions, she stopped her from completing her thought. “I know that you feel responsible for him, that you think he went and got a soul because of you, for you, and, now, you have to help save him. I know that you feel that you owe him because he wore the amulet that closed the hellmouth in Sunnydale. Well, he only did that to impress you and because Angel had intended upon wearing the amulet himself. Spike overheard you that night in the graveyard with your warrior vampire. He was jealous, and territorial, and desperate to win your favor. His gesture had nothing to do with wanting to save the world and everything to do with wanting to gain physical pleasure from you again.”
“How do you know this,” Buffy questioned, “because I highly doubt you just overheard this kind of information. If it's true, Spike would never have said any of it out loud where Angel would have been able to hear him.”
“No, you are right about that, slayer, but he did speak of his actions with me. I learned of his motivations during the Sunnydale apocalypse the same way I learned that, when he left town the year before, it was after he attempted to force himself upon you. Despite the chip inside his head, without a soul, he realized that he was still a danger to you. His motives might have been less than selfish, but they were born from guilt he well deserved to feel. After the way he manipulated you after your return from heaven, after he attempted to rape you, he is the one who owes you, slayer, for your compassion; you are not indebted to him for his decision to fight for his soul. As for how I learned of this information, while the half breed Spike might amuse me, he does not hold his liquor that well and tends to talk, revealing his secrets, when he is inebriated.”
For several minutes, Buffy remained silent, lulled into a state of shock. Finally, she asked, “so, you're telling me that that I shouldn’t feel sorry for him?”
“Pity and loyalty are two completely different human sentiments and should always remain separate. I am sorry, warrior of the light, for your confusion, however, I do not have time to wait for your mortal emotions to catch up to what your mind now knows. I have somewhere else I need to be. But I didn't come here to hurt you; I came here to show you that you need not punish yourself or hold yourself back from being happy. When Angel comes to you...”
“Don't hold your breath for that one,” the slayer warned.
“And don't you presume to believe that you are the only lesser being that I have visited today.”
“But what about the curse,” Buffy protested.
“Oh, not this again,” Illyria complained. “I had hoped, foolishly so I now see, that you would not be as obtuse as your vampire warrior counterpart, but I can assure you that Angel will never again be capable of perfect happiness. I have, inadvertently, I admit, made sure of the fact.”
“Well, considering it'll be me his fuzzy evil counterpart will come after first if you're wrong, would you mind telling me what exactly you did to make sure he doesn't go all Angelus again on me after we hit the sheets?”
She observed the slayer carefully. “I have not revealed the exact identity of the threat to Angel, and I'm not sure you can be trusted to keep it a secret from him if I reveal it to you. Are you capable of lying to the man you love?”
“I've dated three vampires, the most vain creatures ever to walk the earth, and one human who had an inferiority complex when it came to my ex,” Buffy told her. “I'm pretty sure I can keep one teeny-tiny piece of information from Angel if I have to.”
“Alright, then,” Illyria agreed. “I will tell you, but only because it will have absolutely no consequence to me either way. To prevent the warrior Angel from perfect happiness, I have provided Spike with something he can lord over Angel's head. Angel just doesn't know what it is.”
“And me, can I know?”
Standing, she answered, “it is a device that, when awakened, sings with Angel's voice to a girl named Mandy who seems to come and go a lot. I really didn't understand the song. It made no sense to me, but it was unmistakable just how dreadful the singing is. Spike was quite pleased with the parting gift I gave him, and Angel was properly horrified to know that his rival had something to threaten him with, and, now, you have the information you need to let go of the one thing that was holding you back from the life you’ve always wanted.”
Illyria had meant to just slip away, but, before she could, Buffy asked, “why? Why are you doing this for me? You don't even know me, and I have a feeling that you don't particularly like me or Angel for that matter either.”
“Because I could,” she responded simply. “I have my reasons, but that's all you need to know,” and, perhaps, as a human, all she'd be able to understand.
“Well, thanks,” the slayer said, still sitting in her seat. Shrugging, she added, “for everything.”
“And thank you, warrior of the light, for the gelato. You were right when you said I would enjoy it. Other than fighting and killing demons, it might be the only other thing I liked about your world. In fact, someday, when I awaken again and humans are extinct, I will have to remember it and make my followers serve it to me.”
With that, Illyria silently slipped into the late night crush of pedestrians and disappeared, leaving Buffy alone at a tiny, corner Italian bistro, too lost in thought to even notice that the god was gone.
~ * ~
One Year Later...
“Larry, did I ever tell you about my friend Blue?”
“Spike,” the bartender wearily replied, “if you're about to tell me that you were once Paul Bunyan, I'm going to have to stop you there. While I might believe that you're a ghost considering the fact that I clean up a puddle of booze from underneath your chair every night, you've also tried to sell me on the fact that you were once a poet, a vampire, and a slayer's bitch... whatever a slayer is, and even attempted to snow me into believing you once saved the world.”
“Make that twice, mate.”
The point is, Spike, that I just don't trust you.”
“Well, then, it's a good thing I'm not about to claim being the figure of a tall tale now, isn’t it? Besides, when have you ever seen me wear anything of the plaid variety?”
The bartender considered the question before nodding his head in supplication. “Alright, you have a point there.”
“You're bloody well right I do, and, if Blue were here, she'd skin you alive for thinking her an oxen. She was a god, you know.”
“Oh, here we go again,” Larry exclaimed, tossing aside his rag exasperatedly.
But Spike just ignored him, talking away as though he couldn't hear the complaint. Despite the fact that he still was incorporeal, he could get drunk. Somehow, as the booze splashed through the empty space his spirit occupied, his form's matter would absorb the liquor, eventually inebriating him. It was the one pleasure of the flesh Spike could still enjoy, but he was working on the others. Though he had figured out a way to hold a fag, he'd yet to discover how he could inhale the smoke and nicotine into his lungs, but he was determined. He'd either learn to smoke again or burn his apartment building down in the process. Either way, he was a ghost, so it really didn't matter.
“Anyway, this friend of mine, she was quite the bloody card, she was.”
“If you say so, Spike.”
“I do, mate, and I'll prove it to you, too,” he argued. Clearing his throat, Spike recited, “there once was this bird from the vast well; she gave me a phone to cause the Poof hell. Her name was Illyria, she was way too seria, but her ass and tits were quite swell.” Tossing back the shot before him, he waited until he heard the liquid splash onto the floor before he challenged, “I told you I was a damn poet.”
The bartender, either a glutton for punishment or too bored to not play along with Spike's games, asked, “so, whatever happened to this friend of yours, this Blue?”
“The stupid wench threw in the towel, gave up the game, and left me here all alone to put up with a happy but not too happy Peaches making a go at ever after with my slayer. Worse yet, she tricked me into being his damn keeper in the process, too, watching to make sure he doesn't go breaking his curse and turning back into his less than cheery alter ego.”
“Damn women,” Larry cursed on Spike's behalf.
Seconding the thought, Spike himself added, “bloody bitches. They're all out to get me, mate, I swear, and, to make matters worse, Blue was the only chit I ever met who could hold her liquor as well as I do, and she up and left, leaving me to drink, once again, on my own. Well, here's to you, Blue,” Spike toasted, lifting his half empty glass in a salute, “wherever you are. I hope your bloody well collapses on top of you. Merry Winter Solstice, pet,” and, with that, he gulped down the rest of his tequila with a flourish.
~ * ~
As Buffy led a blindfolded Angel into their living room, he grumbled, “Buffy, I don't see why we had to wait until tonight to decorate the tree. Christmas is going to be over in less than twenty-four hours, and we'll have barely celebrated it.”
She poked him in the side. “Quit whining. This is technically not only Christmas Eve but also our anniversary, seeing as how you made it here minutes before midnight and only an hour after Illyria left.”
“I still can't believe she came to see you.”
“I still can't believe you guys let her walk around outside looking like that,” Buffy teased. “She nearly gave me a heart attack when I turned around and saw all that blue.”
Angel shrugged. “It was better than when she pretended to look like Fred. That was just... too painful.”
“No, I get it,” the slayer reassured him. “Trust me, I sooo get it. Remember your friend The First? You put up with it for a few days; I had to deal with it for months wearing the faces of people I loved and lost. But anyway, stop distracting me,” she ordered, emphasizing her remark with another jab to his muscled side.
“Hey,” Angel protested. “You're the one who started talking about Illyria.”
“Yeah, well, I figure, despite her less than kosher ways, she deserves to be remembered today. After all, without her interference, you never would have come for me.”
“We don't know that. I might have come on my own... eventually.”
Buffy snorted. “Yeah right, Mr. Woe-is-Me, I-Enjoy-Self-Flagellation-Way-Too-Much-For-It-Not-To-Possess-Some-Kind-of-Kink-Factor. You would have tortured yourself – and me – until the cows came home making chocolate instead of white milk.”
“Hey, if we're calling each other names here, you've been known to blame yourself for things that weren't your fault, too.”
“Oh, what, I'm sorry,” Buffy teased as she stopped them in what felt like to Angel to be the center of their living room, “but I can't hear you. All I can hear is my wonderful boyfriend complimenting me on my amazing decorating talents.” With that, she swept off his blind fold. “Merry Winter Solstice, Angel!”
He glanced around the room, taking in its bright and completely blue appearance. From the couch, to the rug, to the holiday decorations, everything was unrelentingly cobalt blue. “What in the...?”
“It's for Illyria,” she explained unnecessarily. “I thought she'd appreciate it. And don't freak when you see your credit card bill this month, because the tree was really expensive. Who knew that customizing an order for an eight foot tall blue Christmas tree would be so costly?” Happily, Buffy reached over, hugged him, and kissed his cheek. “But it came with a lifetime guarantee, so we'll definitely get our money's worth out of it, and, at the same time, we'll never forget the creepy god who made it all possible. I'm a genius, right?”
“You're something, that’s for sure,” he agreed, both laughing at and laughing with his girlfriend. After dropping a quick kiss to her lips, he moved away towards the small bar they kept in the room while Buffy stood there and continued to admire their tree. He needed a drink, badly. He just hoped that the whiskey wasn't blue, too. That he could not handle.
Joined: Jun 2008 Gender: Female Posts: 893 Location: In Hell... i.e. Pennsylvania Karma: 6
Blind Love - Part Three « Result #5 on Dec 18, 2009, 10:43am »
Part Three
“I’m pooped.”
“Ew, Willow,” Cordelia screeched, the high pitch of her appalled voice making the throbbing in his already pained head worsen. “That has to be the most disgusting euphemism for being tired. Ever.”
“Well, thanks for telling us how you feel, Cordy,” Xander snapped, “not that we actually care.”
The sniping and the bickering had only worsened as the night went on and they continued to fail in their efforts to find Buffy. It seemed as though the teens were taking their frustrations and their exhaustions out on each other. Rupert was just thankful that, so far, he had been excluded from their petty arguments. He had managed to keep his dignity intact and not engage them in argument as well. Though, he had been close to doing so several times, but that last shred of an adult still left within him reminded him that lowering himself to the high school students’ level would only counteract their efforts and further impair their search for his missing slayer.
Wearily, he stripped off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Children, please,” he beseeched them. It was, in all likelihood, probably a futile request, but he needed a moment or two of silence in order to think. “We need to concentrate, and we need to work together right now. If you can’t do that for me, and if you can’t do that for Buffy,” with that he glanced pointedly an extremely piqued Cordelia, “then, at least, do it for the greater good. The world needs its slayer.” Lowering his voice, he murmured softly to himself, “I need her.”
“But, Giles, I don’t know what else we can do,” Willow protested. “We’ve looked everywhere.”
“The mansion was definitely a bust, and can I just say again how much that Drusilla gives me the creeps,” Xander stated, shuddering at the very thought of the dark haired, insane vampire.
Thoughtfully, the watcher remarked, “yes, well, I do believe that is her intent.” However, the teen was accurate in his assessment of their visit to Angelus’… home. Buffy had not been hidden away in the residence. Surprisingly, Spike had been very hospitable, so to speak, allowing them access to both the grounds and the house so they could search for the missing slayer. He had also been forthright, informing them that their coven’s leader had not been seen the entire evening. It had taken the watcher several moments to adjust to seeing the bleach blonde vampire in a wheelchair, but, oddly enough, it didn’t lessen his aura of immorality. Rather, it made him seem more desperate, more willing to prove himself as evil.
“As was the warehouse, Buffy’s house, and all the freaking cemeteries in this godforsaken town,” Cordelia supplied, sounding more than slightly perturbed that she had been drug all over Sunnydale, looking for someone she didn’t even particularly like. For that matter, Giles wasn’t even sure why she was still with them, despite the fact that she and Xander had somewhat of an unconventional romantic relationship going on. “And do not even get me started on the fact that you made me visit the morgue.”
“Why, Cordy,” her boyfriend taunted. “Did all that legwork pooper you out?”
“Harris!”
Before the irate cheerleader could advance, Willow held out a restraining arm and blocked the other teen’s intended path. Speaking softly, she said, “and Buffy’s not at the hospital or any of the free clinics or doctor offices in town. In fact, there weren’t even signs of trouble in any of those places, so we know that Angel didn’t break in anywhere to get her medical help or even supplies.”
“He’s a soulless demon who wants to have himself a Buffy sized smorgasbord, Will. I really don’t think he’d be trying to save her.”
“If nothing else, Angelus has proven himself to be unpredictable,” the watcher remarked in juxtaposition to Xander’s statement. “At this point, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if he would save her life only so that he could again, another day, torment her once more.”
Smirking wickedly, Cordelia teased her beau, “hey, it kind of reminds me of my relationship with you. I suffer, and you continually harass me.”
“Well, there is a fine line between love and obsession,” Willow offered helpfully. As she noticed him glaring at her, though, for it pained the watcher to see his most level headed student getting swept up in her best friend’s high school drama, she quickly redirected their conversation back to the topic at hand: Buffy. “Giles, we even went to the funeral parlors and The Bronze. I really don’t know where else we can look.”
“We need to get inside of his head.”
“Whose head,” Xander asked, despite the fact that the answer to his unnecessary question should have been obvious. “Deadboy’s?” Adamantly shaking his own face negatively, the teen responded, “oh, hell no! That is one place my very alive, very human self refuses to go.”
“Why, afraid to learn something, Harris?”
“Like you would really want me to know any of Angelus – the Scourge of Europe’s secret knowledge, Cordy?”
Ignoring the squabbling couple, Giles mused, “I think we’ve been too conservative in our search thus far. We’ve gone to the places that made the most sense, the places were, given any other circumstances, it would have been prudent to look for Buffy. However, Angel will not want us to find her. If he did, he would have sought our help as soon as she was shot.” Finally feeling as though he was on the right track, the watcher pressed, “no, he would have known that we were close by after the spell was lifted, for he knows that we rarely allow Buffy to go off on her own. So, where would he take her that would be safe but where we would also never think to look for them?”
Even Xander and Cordelia were silent for several minutes as the four of them deliberated the inquiry he had just posed. Slumped against the outside of his old yet still dependable car, they relaxed while in thought as the sun slowly lifted from the horizon and started to reawaken the sleepy, shadowed town. Finally, it was Willow who broke the stillness first. “If he’s with her, it has to be someplace safe for him, too, someplace where there’s no risk of the sun’s rays getting in.”
“Angel’s apartment.” Everyone turned to glance at the suddenly attentive, introspective Xander. For once, there was no humor in his tone. “It’s in the basement of this old, abandoned warehouse, so its UV free. Plus, since Soulboy went soulless, he’s shunned everything from his former life except for Buffy. He hates any reminders of his life as Angel.”
“Yes, so it would make sense that he wouldn’t return to Angel’s apartment unless it was for something absolutely necessary,” Giles picked up where the student left off. “And you’re the only one of us who has ever been there before, so, of course, the rest of us wouldn’t even consider searching for Buffy there.”
“And it’s not like you’re some beacon of intelligence,” Cordelia added. When her boyfriend glared at her, she excused, “what? I’m not saying that to be mean. It’s the truth. You’re usually the one getting us into trouble, not helping us find a way out of it, so I’m sure Angelus simply dismissed you.” Patting the still pouting Xander on the shoulder, she offered, “I’m sure this will teach him to never underestimate you again.”
“Darn tootin’,” Willow seconded.
“Alright, then, so it is agreed,” the watcher stated, already moving to, once more, reenter his car. “We search Angel’s old apartment next. If we don’t find anything, then I’m afraid I’m going to take all of you home, so you can get ready for school. I’ll call off, though, and keep looking on my own.” Before any of the three teenagers could protest, he held up a solid hand to stem their words of complaint off. “Please, I will not be swayed.” With that, he returned to the business at hand. “Xander, you’re to sit up front, for I’m going to need you to direct me. Now, let’s get a move on. I’m afraid we don’t have much more time.”
Ten minutes later, the librarian found himself outside of what was, indeed, an abandoned warehouse. It was located in a district of Sunnydale that was rundown and practically deserted. No one lived there, and the other businesses which had once been there had long since moved to better locations. However, he did have to marvel at the fact that, of all the vacant, derelict lots, Angel had chosen for himself the worst, most dilapidated building. Whether that was a conscious choice made for protection or simply another way the souled vampire had tried to punish himself and atone for his sins, he didn’t know, but, nevertheless, he shuddered at the thought of Buffy now being kept in such a neglected place.
However, by the time he came to stand outside of a closed door in the basement, he realized the outside appearance of the building had been rather deceiving. Yes, the warehouse was cold and damp, slightly musty as well, but it was solid and structurally sound, and, despite the situation, he found himself curious as to what he would find on the inside of the apartment’s entrance. He didn’t have to wait long to find out either, because, before he could even knock, the door was swung open, the very last person he was expecting to see standing there with what could only be described as a conceited, hospitable smirk upon his malevolent face.
“It sure took you long enough to find us, Ripper.”
“Yes, well, I’m here now.” Reigning in his ever increasing temper, the watcher demanded to know, “are you going to let us in?”
“Of course,” Ethan Rayne practically simpered, throwing out his left arm and gesturing for the group of four to enter. “I’m been waiting for this moment all night. However, I must ask that, no matter what, you keep your voice down. While my patient has been unconscious all evening, my benefactor just moments ago fell asleep.”
And, indeed, what he said was true. Across the room, positioned side by side in bed together, Giles found his slayer sound asleep next to the very vampire that had been tormenting her, tormenting all of them for months, the very vampire who had maliciously murdered Jenny. A rage he didn’t even realize he was capable of surged through him, and it took all of his self control to remain rooted in place. What he wanted more than anything in that moment was to stake Angelus, to simply end their pain and suffering immediately. It was only Willow’s soft yet restraining hand upon his shoulder that prevented him from advancing towards the unsuspecting demon.
As if reading his former friend’s thoughts, Ethan spoke up. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“Well, thankfully, I’m not you.”
Ethan chuckled, the sound ever immoral. “Isn’t that the truth?” Humor fleeing almost instantly from his voice, the other man warned, “however, that’s not exactly what I meant, and you know it.”
For once, the teens remained silent, allowing him to handle their present situation, and, if nothing else, Giles was thankful for that. “Then why don’t you tell me what’s going on here.”
Shrugging his shoulders, Ethan strode confidently over to a leather chair and took a seat before responding. “There’s not much to tell, Ripper, ol’ pal. You’re slayer’s going to live, thanks in part to my help. Isn’t that all you need to know?”
“That still doesn’t tell me why I can’t kill the vampire.”
Tsking under his breath, Ethan chastised, “where’s your honor, old man? A life for a life, isn’t that the fair exchange these days? I’d think you’d give Angelus some leeway, considering the fact he’s the other reason why blondie over there is still alive and kicking. Okay,” Ethan amended, laughing foully. “Poor choice of words on my part. Maybe she’s not exactly kicking, and she won’t be for a while, but that’s because both of her legs were broken by the fall. However, she is still very much alive.”
Taking a cleansing breath, the watcher attempted to calm himself further. Just hearing of Buffy’s injuries sent a stab of pain to his heart. He should have been there for her. He shouldn’t have let her go into the school alone. He should have done something different, anything different to make sure that she never was hurt that badly. “And the gunshot wound?”
“Give it 48 more hours, and all that will remain will be two eraser sized scars. Think of them as trophies for a job well done, souvenirs, if you will, for fighting the good fight.”
“How is that…” Shocked, he shook his head to clear his thoughts. “How is that even possible?”
“Ripper, you insult me,” his former cohort pretended to be offended. “Why do you think Angelus brought her to me? Please, you don’t think that the two of us are actually friends and that I’m merely here for moral support, do you? No, these days, I prefer the solitary life, and the Scourge of Europe has never been too fond of humans, even those of the chaos worshiping variety.” Standing, Ethan crossed the room to the far desk where he picked up a mortar and returned to run it under Giles’ nose. “Like I said before, I’m in part responsible for the slayer still being alive, and this little salve was the key.”
The next words that escaped his lips were hard and bitter. “What is in that, Ethan?”
“Just a little bit of this and a little bit of that. You know, various herbs for healing and whatnot.” Grinning sinfully, he added, “Oh, and I can’t forget the main ingredient: vampire blood.”
Sighing, Giles visibly deflated. “Oh, dear lord.”
Finally breaking her silence, Cordelia moaned, “ew, that’s totally disgusting. No, wait. It’s more than that. It’s revolting.”
“Kind of makes you rethink your stance on pooped out, doesn’t it Cordy,” her boyfriend offered, though he wasn’t exactly mocking just sympathizing with her stance.
However, Rayne still found their comments amusing and chuckled accordingly. “Just wait, though,” he started, really warming up to the spotlight he was under. “I haven’t even told you the best part yet.” When no one jumped in to reply, to beg for him to share more, he taunted, “well, then, maybe you don’t want to know.”
“Just spit it out already, you creep,” Cordelia demanded. “I don’t have all day, you know.”
Running his eyes appreciatively up and over her form, Ethan agreed, “no, I bet you don’t. Anyway,” he brightened considerably, clapping his hands together for emphasis. “The best part of this little healing spell of mine is that it bonded the slayer and Angelus together. Now, if any of you white hats decide to kill him, you’ll also kill your precious Buffy.”
Out of the gloomy recesses of the bed, they could hear a dark, sinister bark of laughter. “Oh, that’s rich, Rayne,” Angelus seemed to approve, “but it better not work in the opposite way.”
“No, feel free to drain the bitch whenever you want,” Ethan stated unemotionally. “Her death will not result in yours.”
Exploding, Giles demanded to know, “why in the world would you ever do such a thing?”
“Why, to stick it to you, of course, Ripper,” Ethan remarked genially. “By now, you should know that I always take advantage of an opportunity when one is presented to me, and what better way to make you suffer, to make you pay than to sit back and watch you be forced to eventually kill your own slayer?”
Slipping away from the group, he replaced his salve back upon the desk he had retrieved it from moments before. Continuing on with his explanation, he admitted, “oh, it won’t be an easy choice for you to make. You’ll stew, and squirm, and bemoan the position that I put you in, but, in the end, it’ll come down to one thing: the better good. Although the slayer can be replaced, all the lives that Angelus takes between now and when you finally stake him cannot be, and each and every single one of those deaths will weigh upon your conscious like an anvil. The council will tell you to kill him, your little fanclub,” he waved towards the three teens behind the watcher, “will tell you to kill him, and, hell, even blondie herself will tell you to stake the bastard, and, eventually, you’ll listen to them, and you’ll do as you’re told but not before the decision completely breaks you, and, during this whole time, I’ll have a front row seat… with buttered popcorn, a large soda, and a bag of gummy bears. What can I say,” Ethan shrugged his shoulders unapologetically, “they’re my weakness.”
With that, he grabbed his supplies and practically skipped out of the basement apartment, leaving an amused Angelus, three devastated high school students, and an unconscious Buffy in his wake. As for him, well… Giles felt truly haunted. Once more, his past was coming back to reign terror and pain down upon those nearest and dearest to him. For months, he had been urging Buffy to just kill her former vampire lover. After what Angelus had done to Jenny, he wanted revenge, and it had angered him that the slayer had been unable to do so, to end the life of yet just another soulless demon. However, he was just as guilty at allowing the past to still affect him if not more so than Buffy, and he had never loved Ethan Rayne unlike how she had once felt and probably still did feel for Angel though he was no longer with them. Unlike her mistakes, though, his were about to jeopardize the entire world. Never before had he felt so much like a hypocrite.
Joined: Jun 2008 Gender: Female Posts: 893 Location: In Hell... i.e. Pennsylvania Karma: 6
CFFC09: Running Late « Result #7 on Dec 13, 2009, 11:00pm »
A/N: Hello again, all! It's been forever and a year since I've really even thought about Jason and Elizabeth, and, until just yesterday, I had no ambition whatsoever to write for them again. However, Jules is sneaky. She told me about the first Christmas prompt here while we were on the phone just before I got in the shower. (I know this is going to sound weird, but I do some of my best thinking while I'm washing my hair. It must be the scalp massage.) Anyway, this idea for Winter Wonderland concerning Elizabeth practically slapped me in the forehead, and I had to run with it. Or fall... as you'll soon see. Now, a warning here: this piece is a little left of center compared to what you're used to reading from me, but, if any of you have been following my work since I stopped penning Liason fics, you'll know that I've become very much interested in the supernatural, the strange, the odd, and the unexplained. While this isn't so much that, it also isn't normal either. Anyway, I have no idea if I'll continue with the prompts, if I'll write three other stories. Time will tell. However, I can inform you that I just looked a couple of days ago, and I discovered that I have four chapters of Heartbeats written that were never posted and five one shots. Though I'll probably never end up posting a poll that allows you to vote for a one shot to be extended, I thought I'd, at least, post what I have written for Jason and Elizabeth. There's no sense leaving stories saved on my flashdrive, just taking up space. Someone should enjoy them. So, I think that's it. I hope you all are doing well. Have a safe, healthy, and happy holiday season, everyone!
Feliz Navidad, ~Charlynn~
Running Late
A Liason Holiday One Shot
CFFC09 Prompt #1: Winter Wonderland
“There has been a noticeable spike in brain activity today, Doctor. Should I schedule another round of tests...”
“No, that's alright,” he sighed. “Of all people to know that you should never give up on a patient, it would be me, but it's been almost three years, Nurse. She's never going to wake up.”
* ~ *
She wasn't sure why she was out here, wondering around in the woods. She should have been at home – with her children, with Lucky. They were her family, her life, her everything. She wasn't allowed to have anything else, because she wouldn't allow it.
Yes, she had work, but nursing was a means to an end. She went to nursing school so she could provide for Cameron. It wasn't her passion. No, she killed that. Relegated it to the very outside fringe of her existence, dismissed it, ignored it. A single mother struggling to pay her bills shouldn't throw her money away frivolously on painting supplies, and a wife and mother of two had more important things to do in her spare time than to express herself on canvas, so that part of Elizabeth had shriveled up and died... just like so many other aspects of her personality.
She really didn't have any friends now either. Some were dead. Whether or not their deaths were her fault, Elizabeth could no longer distinguish, and a part of her wasn't ready to face the ugly truth if she was. Others she had pushed away, disconnecting and hiding from their knowing glances, perceptive questions, and there were the friendships that she purposely trashed and ruined. She didn't deserve them, so she went out and found the one way to make sure they could never be salvaged again. It was her modus operandi, Lizzie's modus operandi.
For a while, she had curbed her self-destructive ways, found distractions and cloaking spells to hide from the true visage that stared back at her from the mirror, but they were gone now. Tossed aside. Perhaps, they had run away. Whatever the reason, she could, once more, see herself for who she really was. Useless, unlovable, not good enough. If her sham of a relationship with Jason had taught her anything, it was her place. She had given him everything, sacrificed so much to be with him, but he pushed her away. He didn't want her, and, now that her eyes were open and clear again, she didn't blame him. She didn't even want herself.
So, maybe that's why she refused to go home. Her presence was poison. If she could spare her boys just a few minutes away from her, she would. She wasn't good for them anymore. No matter what, she still loved her children. At least, she thought so. That's why she was still fighting, pushing for Lucky to marry her again. Though her memories were dim, shadowed too much by the present, Elizabeth could still recall a time when she was happy, when everything in her world wasn't shattered and falling apart in her quivering hands, and, when she closed her eyes and tried to recall those better days, she was positive that they were better because of Lucky. Because he was there to take care of her, to lover her, to share the burden of life with her, and, so, that's what she needed again, not for herself but for her boys. If she was going to be better for them, she needed Lucky to make her that way.
At the same time, though, she couldn't stop her self-destructive habits. Things were so bad that it was only when she hurt herself that she could actually feel anything. Every other emotion had been burned out of her heart. She was numb inside except for when the pain bit through the haze of coldness.
But she was tired of fighting. Tired of struggling, of striving, so, for a few minutes that evening, she just wasn't going to. She was going to walk through the snow covered woods, disappear from everything that made her who she was, and just forget. Her body moved by memory, the sting of the wind and the tiny, frozen drops of moisture falling from the sky kept her awake, and she simply closed her eyes and allowed the monotony of her day – needy patients, crying patients, dying patients – to fade away. She never saw the danger in front of her until it was too late, and she was falling, falling, falling down.
She landed harshly, jarring her body, but nothing in particular hurt, and Elizabeth was sure that nothing was broken. Except for her. Standing, she moved to dust off her long, winter, winter white coat, but she was no longer wearing it, and, come to think of it, she was no longer cold. Glancing around her, she realized that, instead of being at the bottom of an abandoned mine like she would have guessed, she was standing in a never ending hallway at the MetroCourt, wearing a blue dress and black heels. Her hair hung down her back, rich and full, unlike the disorderly, sloppy bun she knew she had been sporting just moments before.
Something strange was going on, something she couldn't explain, and she didn't like it. Searching for answers, Elizabeth attempted to open the nearest door to her, but it was locked. On and on and on down the hallway she moved, twisting knobs only to discover they were all shut and impossible to open. Finally, she gave up, slid down a wall until she was sitting on the floor, and began to cry. She cried out of fear and confusion, and she cried for all the mistakes she had made on her way to that very moment. She cried an ocean of tears, drowning herself in her sorrow and staining the delicate silk of her party dress.
“Can you swim?”
With fluttering lashes, she opened her gaze only to stare, open mouthed, at the sight before her. It was Lulu. There was no mistaking her former and, if she had her way, future sister-in-law's facial features, but, at the same time, it wasn't her either. She had fur on her face, whiskers by her mouth, pink tinted ears that sat on top of her head instead of on the side, and a tail that was almost as long as her entire body.
As the mouse-girl continued to return her unwavering gaze, Elizabeth struggled to find her voice. Finally, she managed to croak out. “Excuse me?”
“I asked if you can swim. You made this,” Lulu gestured towards the glistening pool that now separated them from the one open door on the opposite end of the never ending hallway. “Now, you have to help me get across.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Of course,” the mouse-girl answered immediately, her searching glare becoming one of intense suspect and scrutiny. “Did you hit your head, Elizabeth; do I have cheese on my face or something?”
Rather than answering her, though, she simply slid over to the water on her bottom, gesturing for Lulu to follow. Getting into the pool, she floated on her back and waited for the she-mouse to climb on top of her. Slowly but steadily, she swam them to the other side, talking the entire time.
“When I was a little girl, I had a cat. She was unwanted, a stray, just like me, but I loved her. I played with her, gave her warm milk every morning and night, and I allowed her to sleep with me in my bed even though I knew my mother would be furious if she found out. My sister, though, she was jealous. And then, one day, my cat was gone.”
“Do we really have to talk about cats,” Lulu asked, sounding both annoyed and fearful. “They're hateful creatures.”
Elizabeth ignored her. “Later, I found out that Sarah lied and told my parents that she was allergic to my cat, so they got rid of her. Gave her away, killed and buried her, I'll never know. She was the first thing that ever really loved me, but I destroyed her. I destroy everything I care about.”
“That's it,” the she-mouse announced, pouncing off of Elizabeth's torso. “I don't know what's wrong with you, but I hope you don't act like this in front of the Queen. It's no wonder you always end up alone. You drive people away, Liz, even those who care about you. I asked you not to talk about cats, but did you listen? No! You just kept on rambling, unconcerned about my feelings. You're selfish, and I'd rather drown on my own than rely upon your help to reach the other side.”
And, with that, Lulu was gone, down, down down into the depths of the pool. Elizabeth kept swimming.
It seemed to take an eternity to reach the other side, but, as she stepped up onto the other ledge, the pool disappeared, and she could only recall her journey in the vaguest of memory flashes. Her dress and shoes were dry, too, which relieved her. After all, it was winter outside, and she didn't want to get sick. Plus, the she-mouse had said something about the Queen. She couldn't face the queen with wet shoes.
She had almost reached the open door when a flash of white pushed her aside. “I'm late; I'm late,” the familiar voice exclaimed agitatedly. He was so distraught, she was worried for him. However, before she could even lift a comforting hand and lay it upon his white, fur suit, the man jumped around and whispered, “you're late, too, Elizabeth.”
“Patrick?”
“Of course it's me,” he said, surprised that she seemed to doubt who he was. Elizabeth observed his button, wiggling nose, his tall, floppy ears, and his uncovered, furry feet which were far too big to be human, but, still, there was no denying the male-rabbit's identity. It... he was Patrick, only different, just like Lulu.
“What's going on around here?” Leaning in closer to the neurosurgeon, she asked conspiratorially, “have I lost my mind?”
“How should I know,” Patrick raged, tossing up his arms. “All I know is that my gloves are missing, and I can't go before the Queen without my gloves.” Narrowing his rabbit gaze at her, he accused, “you took them, didn't you?”
“No,” Elizabeth protested, defending herself. “I swear I didn't.”
But Patrick ignored her, and, instead, he simply turned around and hopped off, talking to himself. “I'm late; I'm late; I'm late.”
Well, he had certainly been no help. She was no closer to finding any answers, and, needing to know what was going on, Elizabeth decided to simply follow the male-rabbit, walking through the same doorway that he had just passed through. Once she stepped upon the threshold, though, she didn't enter into one of the MetroCourt's hundreds of rooms. Rather, she found herself in a lush, balmy garden, the snow that had been falling in and around Port Charles all week nowhere to be seen. There were trees so tall that she couldn't see the dark, night sky above them, and flowers, wild and unnameable, abounded everywhere possible. Tiny, woodland creatures darted in and out of the dense underbrush. She recognized squirrels and chipmunks, raccoon, groundhogs, and she even saw a few deer.
“Hey, you there!”
Twirling wildly, she almost lost her balance as she collided with a fallen log beside her. On top of the log sat a caterpillar of regular, tiny size, and she wondered where the voice had come from, but then the caterpillar spoke to her, apparently again, and, if she had been shocked before by both Lulu and Patrick's appearances, she was nearly dumbfounded by the creature before her.
“Care for some,” the caterpillar asked, nodding its small head towards the end of an elaborate looking pipe.
“Alexis?”
“What, have I suddenly grown horns? Of course it's me,” the caterpillar remarked, and there was no mistaking the haughty, impertinent tone of the lady-lawyer.
“Do you really think it's wise of you to be smoking?”
“I already had lung cancer without ever smoking a day in my life. What harm could it do?”
She really couldn't argue with the caterpillar's reasoning. While she knew there was a fly in the logic ointment somewhere, she simply couldn't figure it out. So, instead, she commented, “what happened? You're so... small.”
“And I would have to say that you're impossibly large, grotesquely so, even,” Alexis sniped. “Forget my previous offer. I no longer feel like sharing with you. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's somewhere I have to be.”
“You're going to see the Queen, right? Everybody seems to want to see the Queen.”
“Nobody wants to see the Queen, Elizabeth,” the caterpillar informed her. “We all just know our place in life.”
And, with that, Alexis slid off the log and disappeared into the green, green, green foliage. Worried, Elizabeth sat down upon the log she had just, moments before, nearly tripped over. Plopping her chin in her hands, she wondered about what Alexis had just said, ruminating over the idea that everyone had a place in the world. She didn't, of that she was positive. For a while, she thought her place was with Jason and her boys, but then he left her, pushed her away, decided he didn't want her... just like everyone else, so she was sent scrambling back into the former tailspin of her life to pick up the pieces of an existence she no longer wanted but needed. But maybe that was her place. Surely, there was someone out there who could tell her the truth, who could look objectively at the mess she had made and tell her what to do.
Brightening with an idea, Elizabeth sat up straight. “I know,” she murmured to herself. “I'll ask the Queen.”
With hope restored, she stood up and began to walk. Although she didn't recognize the garden, and despite the fact that she had no idea where the Queen was, she simply allowed her feet to carry her. It was like they knew where they were going... even if she didn't. As she moved along, the ground beneath her was illuminated by patches of light that seemed to float above her, keeping the sky and the stars still hidden but making sure that she didn't fall. Coming into another clearing like the one before, she was shocked to find Lucky and Nikolas both together, but, like the others before them, their appearances were distorted. They were extremely rotund and wore silly hats on top of their heads. Their clothes were uniformed and colorful, blocks of red and yellow, and, when they talked, they alternated phrases, completing each other's disjointed thoughts.
“First the rabbit,” Nikolas offered.
“Then a mouse,” Lucky continued.
“And now a girl,” they said together.
In perfect tandem, they took a step forward, closer to her.
“This is Tweedledee,” Lucky introduced his brother.
“And he is Tweedledum,” Nikolas returned the gesture. “We are on our way to see the Queen.”
“Would you like to come with us, Elizabeth,” Lucky offered.
“You know my name?”
The brothers shared a conspiratorial glance. Once more, they spoke at the same time. “Everybody here knows everybody else's names.”
“If the Queen has decreed it,” Nikolas explained.
Picking up his train of thought, Lucky finished, “then we must obey it.”
“And your names? Why aren't you Lucky and Nikolas here like Lulu is Lulu, and Patrick is Patrick, and Alexis was Alexis?”
In sync, the brothers shrugged and answered, “the Queen decreed it.”
They seemed so entirely oblivious to her presence there with them, despite the fact that they were having a conversation – if one could even consider the dialogue they were sharing to, in fact, be a conversation, that Elizabeth felt insignificant, invisible. She would have thought such an experience would have been preferable to the spotlight she had seemed to live under for the last countless amount of years, but it wasn't. Needing them to really see her, to really notice her, she said the one thing she could think of that would disrupt the brother's idyllic relationship.
“Lucky... I mean, Tweedledum, I'm sleeping with Nikolas, with Tweedledee.”
Lucky looked at his brother. “No, you're not. He's awake.”
“I'm awake,” Nikolas agreed. “And you're not sleeping either.”
“No, that's not what I meant,” she screamed in frustration. “I'm having an affair with him. Sex. I betrayed you.”
“You don't know me, Elizabeth,” Lucky told her.
“And we don't know you,” Nikolas finished. “At least, not anymore.”
And, with that, the brothers disappeared into the forest, switching back and forth with their thoughts as if they shared the same brain – one half witted, illogical brain.
Feeling dismissed, she returned to her own journey to meet with the Queen, ruminating the entire time over her confrontation with Tweedledee and Tweedledum... as they referred to themselves. She had shared her big secret, unburdened herself and her guilt, but Lucky had ignored the admission, believing it to be a lie. But what if it wasn't the truth here? So many things were different. Nothing made sense, but, if she could be free of the remorse and the pain of her actions in this strange land, if she could get a fresh start, she would take it, and she would hide away in a distant corner where no one could find her and where she wouldn't be able to hurt anyone else, least of all herself.
It was this thought that was giving her hope when she first encountered the grinning cat-man. He was a tabby with thick, warm striped fur, but his face was almost human in nature, ever smiling. He had large teeth, and he seemed to be laughing at her, mocking her. “It's never that simple, Elizabeth.” Since when did cats have Australian accents? “You can't run away and hide from your problems. If anyone would know that, it would be me.” She knew that smile, she knew those teeth, and she knew that voice.
“Ethan?”
But before the cat could answer her questions, it disappeared. Blinking her eyes as if all she needed to do was clear her vision and Ethan would be back again, Elizabeth, instead, found that she was now in a different place all together. The entire dining room of the MetroCourt had been cleaned out, and all the tables had been replaced by a single, long one. Sonny, wearing a ridiculously large top hat, sat at the front of the table, with Dominic to his right and Max beside him. Only Dominic looked like a rabbit, bulkier than Patrick and with a brown fur suit inside of white, and Max was a tiny dormouse. Fitting, really, when she thought about it. They were drinking tea and having a mad time of it, singing and yelling and dancing in their chairs.
Suddenly, spotting her, Sonny called out, “Elizabeth, won't you join us?”
“Me?” Since when did Sonny want to spend time with her, and, for that matter, since when did she want to spend time with him? Despite knowing somehow that she didn't like the man before her or, at least, that she no longer did, she moved anyway and sat to his left, taking the teapot from him and pouring herself a cup.
“We are honored to have you here as our guest. This is a very auspicious occasion.”
“Really,” she questioned, curious. “Why? What's happening?”
“Why, we're having a tea party, of course,” Dominic answered excitedly. “I would think that would be quite obvious,” he remarked to Sonny.
In turn, Sonny agreed. “You'd think.” After a moment of thought, he turned back towards her. “Now, Elizabeth, tell us. Why are you here?”
“I'm here to see the Queen.”
The three animal-men gasped. “The Queen!”
“But she is not here,” Max pointed out.
“No, but I'm trying to find her.”
“Drink your tea,” Sonny suggested, “and, while you do, we'll help you figure out a way to get to the Queen.”
“Why are you helping me,” she asked. “You don't even like me?”
They all three gasped once more. “You think I don't like you,” Sonny challenged, “but we're sharing tea, are we not?”
“You are,” Max answered for him.
“He even allowed you to pour,” Dominic reminded her.
“Friendship is deceptive, Elizabeth. Truth is distortable. Stop listening to your brain, and have some cakes,” Sonny suggested.
“Yes, cakes,” Max exclaimed.
“They will help you see the truth,” Dominic informed her.
“But, wait,” Sonny shouted in distress. “We don't have any cakes. You must go see the Duchess' cook. She will make you some cakes, and the cakes will show you your way to the Queen.”
With that, he grabbed her tea cup from her hand and tossed it over his shoulder. When it broke, she was standing in front of what she somehow knew to be the Duchess' house. Walking up to the front door, Elizabeth rang the bell. The Duchess answered, dressed in all her finery, and shoved a wailing baby in her arms.
“Oh, thank goodness you're here! I must be off to see the Queen.”
“You know the Queen?”
“Why, of course,” the Duchess answered, and Elizabeth wasn't surprised to see that she recognized her. The Duchess was Robin. “We're family.”
With that, she swept out of the house, slamming the door behind her as she left and leaving a distressed and worried Elizabeth in her wake. Whereas she had come to the Duchess' home to find the cook and have some cakes, she now was responsible for a crying babe. In the back of her mind, she knew that she was a mother, that she had two little boys of her own, but, in that moment, Elizabeth had no idea how to care for a child.
“Stick this in that child's mouth before it makes my baking cakes collapse,” a well known voice ordered her as the apparent cook stormed out of the kitchen. It was Epiphany. “And eat this one yourself,” she instructed her. “I've heard you want to see the Queen. The rabbit knows his way there. Give him his gloves back, and he'll take you.”
Around the cake she ate, and Elizabeth mumbled, “but I don't know where his gloves are.”
“Shoo, shoo, out with you,” the cook ignored her protests. “And keep the babe, too.”
She did, and she didn't particularly mind, for she was cute, and, with the cake in her mouth, she no longer wailed. As soon as they stepped outside, though, the child turned into a pig, and it certainly wouldn't do to go see the Queen with a pig in her arms. So, Elizabeth set the pig-child down, and it skittered off into the woods, squealing as only a pig can.
Dusting off the front of her blue dress, she whispered to herself, “this place does indeed get stranger and stranger.”
“Strange is as strange does,” a voice responded behind her, making Elizabeth jump. Whirling around, she came face to face with Luke. If anybody would be able to make sense of the craziness she was embroiled in, surely it would be him.
“What is this place, Luke?”
“Luke? I know of no such thing. Whereas a fluke is a bird and a duke is a hat, a Luke is nothing here nor there.”
She frowned. “Are you drunk?” Rolling her eyes, Elizabeth complained, “oh, who am I kidding? Luke Spencer is always drunk to one degree or another.” But, still, he looked more like himself than anyone else she had thus far encountered. “Do you know the way to the Queen?”
“The White Queen has fled, the Red Queen went poof, and the Queen of Hearts has none. However, the Queen of the worms, oh, she's a special sort.”
Somewhat disgusted, Elizabeth asked, “the Queen of worms? Who is that?”
“I smoked the bottle with her.”
“You mean you drank the bottle with her?”
Grinning gleefully, Luke yelled, “Tequila!”
“You make absolutely no sense. It's like you're just rambling incoherently.” Narrowing her gaze at him, she questioned, “you're not having another heart attack, are you?”
“Jabber, jabber, jabber. You jabber, and I the Jabberwock. Sometimes we jabber so much, we forget to listen to ourselves talk.” Suddenly, Luke clapped his hands together. “Be a good girl, Elizabeth, and give my regards to the rabbit with the watch.”
With what could only be described as a giggle and a skip, Luke rounded the bend in the road and was out of her sight before she could ask him what he meant. But then she knew! Glancing down at her own hands, she found the white rabbit's missing gloves. Everything was coming together. She knew that, to make sense of her life, she needed to find the Queen and that the rabbit would take her there as long as she gave him his gloves back. Luke, though he spoke nonsense, had provided her with said gloves. She was so happy in that moment, if he would have come back, she would have kissed his jabber-spewing cheeks.
The only issue she now had was how was she to find the rabbit? It had been so long since she had last seen him, and Elizabeth knew that she'd never be able to retrace her steps back to the spot where they had first met. However, if she had learned one thing while being in this strange land, it was that everything seemed to work itself out if you just gave it enough time. If only her own life progressed so smoothly...
So, with that in mind, Elizabeth simply started to walk. She followed the dirt road outside of the Duchess' house until it turned into the very same never ending hallway she had first encountered. Down and down and down she moved, past door after door after door, but never a soul did she see. Becoming tired, Elizabeth went to sit down only to find herself getting screamed at.
“Hey, watch where you put that thing! You could crush a girl.”
Springing back up to her feet, Elizabeth gasped in shock. There was someone... She had nearly sat on... Immediately apologizing, she said, “I'm so sorry. I didn't see,” but then she stopped talking as soon as she noticed who exactly it was beneath her. “You?”
“I'm always here, Elizabeth. Even when you turn your back and forget about me, I'm always here. Don't forget that.”
“Trust me, there's no possible way I could forget you, Sam.”
And she couldn't. Despite the fact that they had somewhat made peace between them, there was a part of Elizabeth that would always hate the other woman. She blamed her for so many things, but, most of all, she hated her because she had Jason. Again. Still. Always, it seemed. Here, though, wherever it was, that animosity was tempered somewhat by the other woman's appearance. She was pieced together, cracks visible in her countenance as if she had been broken before and glued back together or made from the parts of several different bodies. And she was shaped oddly as well, her face larger and wider than the rest of her form, making her legs and arms and torso seem almost cartoonish in appearance. Glancing down at her own body, Elizabeth was reassured that she still looked the same, and she was grateful for what she saw.
Suddenly, it dawned on her. “You're Humpty Dumpty here, aren't you?”
“Maybe, but, really, what's in a name? None of the men I'm ever been with have dumped me, at least, not for long. They just keep coming back for more. And then there's you who can't even hold onto Lucky. That's sad, Elizabeth, pathetic even.”
For so long, months, maybe even years now, she had been jealous of the woman before her, one way or another, but, as they stared each other down, Elizabeth came to a very important realization. “At least I'm real. You've pretended to be someone you're not for so long, you really don't know who you are anymore. You mold yourself into the woman you think men want you to be, changing yourself to please them instead of finding someone who can appreciate you for who you really are. I might be alone, and I might be unwanted, and maybe I'll never have the relationship that I need, but I'm still me – mistakes and triumphs, bad days and good days, I'm still Elizabeth Imogene Webber.” Smuggling, she turned away. “Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to find the white rabbit. I have his gloves to return to him.”
She could hear Sam protesting as she sauntered off, but the words the other woman said did not register within her mind. While on the inside she was falling apart, tearing herself apart, she still wasn't anywhere near Sam's level, and, for that, Elizabeth was thankful. Evidently, contrary to her former opinion, she was able to feel more than pain. She could also feel loathing. It wasn't the cheeriest of emotions, but she'd take it.
Eventually, Sam's voice faded until the only noise she confronted in the never ending hallway was the sound of her own steps, muted and nearly silent on the carpeted floor. On and on and on, she walked until it got to the point where she questioned whether or not she was indeed going anywhere at all. To prove that she was actually moving, Elizabeth started to watch her own feet. She watched as she lifted the left and put it back down a pace in front of its former position, repeating the same process with her right foot. Left; right. Left; right. Left; right.
“Omph!”
Rubbing the top of her injured head, Elizabeth lifted her gaze to find that her never ending hallway had finally, in fact, ended, and, before her, an elevator stood proudly, its wide doors closed tightly shut. Pressing the down button to her right, Elizabeth waited for the lift to open. Several seconds went by, and she could hear the elevator's hydraulic system working as it chugged, chugged, chugged its way up to her. With a silver sounding ping, the doors slid open, she stepped on, and then she was on her way down, down, down before she could even choose a floor.
“Now you've made us extremely late.”
“Patrick,” Elizabeth cheered, so excited to see his white, furry self she nearly hugged him. It was a good thing she didn't, though, because, upon closer inspection of the white rabbit's face, he looked no more pleased to see her than he had hours, days, weeks (she really wasn't sure how much time had passed) before.
“Did you find my gloves?”
“Yes, here they are,” she answered, handing him the accessories he so desired.
“See, I told you that you had them.”
“But I didn't,” she proclaimed innocently. “Luke,” at his perplexed glance, she corrected herself. “The Jabberwock had them. He gave them to me to give back to you.”
“We'll see if your mouth speaks the truth or not when you see the Queen,” Patrick warned her.
Feeling almost giddy, Elizabeth asked, “are we almost there?”
“We are always there. It's the Queen, though, who must decided whether there is the place to see her or not.”
“I don't understand.”
“And that,” the white rabbit told her, “is why we are late.”
When the elevator stopped at the lobby, they both got off, and she followed him around as he seemed to search for a place to stand. Why they couldn't just sit and wait for the Queen, she didn't know, but she had already angered him enough; she didn't want to do anything else to incite his wrath. So, she obediently copied his steps, his movements, his ways until she was distracted by three others.
They were all dressed oddly, their clothes square and resembling that of which would be worn by Jacks, not the family, mind you, but the playing cards, and they were wandering about the lobby, pricking their fingers upon the thorns of the white roses and dripping their own blood upon the flowers until they turned a deep, crimson red. Never did they wince in pain; never did they say a word of complaint.
Stopping to talk to one of the men, Elizabeth asked, “why do you do that?”
“The Queen decreed it.”
Upon hearing the man's voice, Elizabeth brightened. Why, it was Matt, Patrick's brother, but the two men didn't greet each other, and Matt didn't seem to notice her. Instead, he simply continued to bleed upon the roses, intent upon his task. Bored and still confused, Elizabeth moved so that she could look out the lobby's windows, hoping a glance at the world outside of the MetroCourt would grant her some much needed answers, but there was absolutely nothing but pitch blackness beyond the glass.
As a second card dressed man tiptoed by her, she stopped him. “Is it not winter here?”
“Of course it is,” he answered her, and, again, she recognized him. This time, it was Milo. “But the Queen doesn't like snow, so she decreed that it would not be anymore. You see, snow does not please the Queen's shoes.”
“Her shoes?”
“Yes, her shoes,” Milo repeated. “There is nothing the Queen loves more than her shoes, not even the King.”
She had more questions for him, but, before she could ask, Milo left her alone, and she was forced to track down the third card dressed man, hoping he would be more forthcoming than the last two. Since he looked like Spinelli, Elizabeth believed she would be in luck. However, she should have known better. Everything in this strange place, especially her preconceived notions, was wrong.
“Can you tell me who this Queen is?”
“Her Highness,” Spinelli questioned, evidently rhetorically, because he started to answer her before she could press him further. “She is she, and she is her, and she is the Queen.”
He slipped away, just like the others, and Elizabeth was left even more confused than she was before. With every brush off, with every befuddling confession, she started to lose more and more and more of her previously gained hope. What if she never did get to see the Queen? What if the white rabbit was right, and she really was late, too late to get her questions answered. And what if the Queen, even if she did get to see her, couldn't help her? It was all just too much, and Elizabeth found herself sitting, sitting, sitting down.
A sigh escaped her lips.
“You sound like she looks.”
Glancing up from her folded hands, Elizabeth was confronted with what was perhaps the oddest looking creature she had been confronted with yet. It was part bird with great wings, that much she could tell, and its voice was entirely human, but there were some aspects of it she couldn't distinguish. Yet, she could recognize the creature anyway. “Tracy?”
“In this land, I am Gryphon, though I have heard of this name, Tracy, that you mention. Unlike everyone else here, though, I do actually have some knowledge of other, lesser lands.”
“And she,” Elizabeth asked, referring to the other creature Gryphon had referenced in comparison to herself just moments before. “Is she aware, too?”
“It doesn't know anything. It simply exists.”
And, to show its lack of ambition or knowledge, the other creature simply sighed. Though it stood on two feet, there was a hard shell across its back, and its skin, scaly and green, reminded Elizabeth of a turtle's. Its head, though, was almost a silvery blonde, and its eyes were kind, compassionate, and familiar. Approaching the she-turtle, she asked, “do I know you?”
“I would hope not,” Gryphon snarked. “The mock turtle is nothing, because nobody remembers it. The mock turtle does nothing, because nobody has a purpose for it. The mock turtle isn't even a turtle anymore, because the Queen decreed it.”
Again, a reference to the Queen. “You know her, the Queen,” Elizabeth questioned.
“Everybody knows her. However, I'm the only one who knows what she is.” Here, the Gryphon paused dramatically, prolonging her audience's anticipation. “She's a fraud. Without her, this place would continue on the same way it always has. She's not needed. We don't need her, but no one else is smart enough to realize this.”
“Just you.”
“Just me,” Gryphon agreed.
“So, then, she won't be able to answer my questions?”
The Gryphon shrugged. “Oh, she'll tell you something, but whether or not it's what you actually need to hear, that we'll never know.”
“I just want to know why I'm here.”
“That's all any of us want to know,” the mock turtle spoke for the very first time. Its voice finally made Elizabeth realize who it was.
“Monica!”
But the mock turtle either ignored her or simply didn't hear her. “But it doesn't matter why we're here if we're not here for the right reasons, if we're not with the right people, if we're not useful towards what is right and just.”
Making Elizabeth jump, a fourth voice joined them. “Shoo! Get out of here,” a recognizable male ordered. “You know the two of you are not to be here. The Queen wouldn't like it.”
Grumbling, the Gryphon slithered off, and, silently, the mock turtle followed.
“I apologize, Elizabeth, but pay those creatures no mind. They speak nonsense, the both of them.”
“That seems to be a common theme around here,” she shared, grinning despite herself. “You know the Queen, I take it, Johnny?”
“Please, do not say my name. Her Highness decreed that I have to be her Knave, and, since that day came to pass, my sole purpose is to please her. I do not exist outside of my duties.”
Now that he mentioned it, Elizabeth realized that he was dressed... formally. Gone were the casual clothes she had seen Johnny wear in the past, and, replacing them, he had on a slick, impressive suit. From the hat he wore crooked and tipped down over his left eye to the heels of his patent leather shoes, he was dressed in black. It was an odd sight in this even stranger land, for almost everything was bright, bright, bright, and colorful and alive.
“Come,” the Knave instructed her. “You are no longer late, for the Queen has arrived.”
He turned them around, and Elizabeth found that they were still in the lobby, but, somehow without her noticing, it had been altered to resemble a courtroom. Behind the counter, the Queen and her docile King's thrones were arranged, and a chair was placed before it for the witnesses to occupy. Off to the side, spectators gathered, including the white rabbit, his gloves on.
As the Queen lifted her gaze, she screamed, “off with her head,” and, for the first time, Elizabeth realized that it was Robin, the Duchess, who was on trial.
“Wait, Maxie, what are you doing,” she protested, shaking off the Knave's hand and running towards the Queen. While she wanted to rail against the very idea that the young blonde could be royalty of any kind, let alone one powerful enough to be considered all knowing and allowed to issues proclamations of beheading, there just simply wasn't enough time for such arguments. If she wanted to save Robin, if she wanted to save the Duchess, if she wanted to save her friend, she had to intercede immediately. “You love her. She's your cousin. Why would you ever want her dead?”
“Because I decreed it, that's why, and who are you to question me? And, for that matter, you are to address me as Her Highness or Her Majesty or something else that's equally as impressive. I worked hard to become the Queen!”
The chattiness that she always felt when fighting with Maxie revealed itself. “How, by lying flat on your back like you always do?”
“That's it,” the Queen raged, flying out of her throne and stepping up onto the counter. With a wickedly long, black painted nail, she pointed in Elizabeth's direction. “Forget the Duchess. Kill the bitch!”
“Wait, no! You can't do this! Maxie, this isn't right! I don't belong here. I don't belong here. I don't belong here.”
She could feel the Knave approaching with a sword, she could sense the three card dressed men closing in upon her to hold her down as her head was cut off, but there was nothing she could do to save her own life, and there wasn't a single person there who would speak up on her behalf as she had done for Robin. Apparently, not even the King, Jax of all men to be married to Maxie, had the power or the inclination to speak against the Queen. After everything she had gone through, she was going to die, and it was in that moment, as she could hear the sword singing as it arched down, down, down towards her neck that Elizabeth realized she didn't want to.
She wanted to fight for her life, make it better, stop the pain, and leave behind all her destructive habits. Suddenly, the haze was lifted, and she could remember a time when she didn't need anybody, especially not Lucky, in her life to be happy, when she depended upon herself, and she had her boys to love and to love her, and that was enough. Somehow, she would find a way to paint again. Maybe she could teach Cameron and Jake how to paint, too. That way, it could be something they could do together. And she could make new friends and repair the relationships she had ignored and trashed along the way. She still mattered, her life still mattered, and there were things that still mattered to her.
* ~ *
“Elizabeth. Elizabeth! ELIZABETH!”
Thrashing upon her narrow bed, Elizabeth slowly woke to the sound of her own name being yelled. With fluttering lashes, she hesitantly opened her eyes, fearful of what she might be forced to withstand, only to gaze upon a face she never thought she'd see again. Immediately, she started to quietly cry.
“I'm dead, aren't I,” she questioned, surprised when she heard how brittle and rusty her own voice was.
“No, you're awake,” Alan informed her joyously. “I have to tell you, Elizabeth, after nearly three years, almost all of us had given up hope that you'd wake up, but you did, and I'm so glad.”
“But you're dead.”
He chuckled. “I have a pulse here that would argue to the contrary, but I'm sure you're just feeling disoriented still from the coma. Everything will make better sense in a few minutes.”
Now, she was really confused. Scrunching up her face, she asked, “coma?”
“What, you don't remember?” When she simply looked at him strangely, Alan said, “you hit your head, Elizabeth. Jason got to you just in time before the MetroCourt lobby exploded, but, as soon as the two of you were inside the elevator, the blast snapped the wires, and the car fell down the elevator shaft. He tried to shield you as much as possible, but, when the car landed, you hit your head. You've been in a coma ever since.”
Metrocourt. Jason. Elevator.
Her hands flew frantically towards her flat stomach. “My baby?”
“Three months later, Doctor Lee delivered a beautiful, healthy baby boy via cesarean. Jason named him Jacob. Now, granted, while I may be slightly biased, I have to say that my grandson is the smartest two and a half year old ever to be born inside this hospital.”
Desperately, Elizabeth sat up and reached for Alan's hands. Clutching them, squeezing them so harshly that, no doubt, the chief of staff would lose all feeling within seconds, she demanded to know, “and Emily?”
“She's just down the hall, working. I can go get here if you want me to...”
Alan's voice trailed off as he noticed the instantaneous relief that washed across her face. Sadly, he asked, “where have you been, Elizabeth; all this time, where in your mind have you been?”
“Someplace horrible,” she whispered, needing to confide in someone. “You were dead, Emily was dead, Jason pushed us out of his life. He didn't even want anything to do with his son. And I was doing horrible things to the people I care about, hurting them, hurting myself just to feel. For so long, it was just one terrible thing after another, and, then, and I know this is going to sound strange, but I'm pretty sure I spent a day in Wonderland, where all the characters were people I knew, and they were all trying to tell me these important things that suddenly don't matter, because I'm here, and none of that was real, and it's going to better. Tell me, Alan, that it's going to be better.”
Lifting her hands, he kissed her knuckles, first the right and then the left before leaning forward and kissing her forehead. “It's going to be better now, Elizabeth. You fell down the rabbit hole, and you were gone for almost three years, but it's going to be better. I promise.”
And, as she settled back down in bed, she believed him. It was snowing outside, Jason had claimed their son, and she had a second chance. As she drifted back to sleep, her body exhausted despite its thirty-four month coma, the last thing she saw was an upturned deck of cards. She smiled at the sight.
“Cameron was trying to teach Jake how to play Go Fish today,” Alan explained as he noticed where her gaze had landed. “In the end, they ended up trying to get Jason to play 52 Pickup. He was willing... until he figured out how to play the game.” For several seconds, he chuckled softly to himself. “Get some rest, Elizabeth, and, when you wake up in the morning, it'll be Christmas, and your family will be here waiting for you.”
She did as she was told. After all, she was just a nurse. Who was she to argue with the chief of staff?
Joined: Jun 2008 Gender: Female Posts: 893 Location: In Hell... i.e. Pennsylvania Karma: 6
Part 2 « Result #8 on Dec 8, 2009, 1:52pm »
Part Two
There were two cardinal rules for a watcher, and he had broken both of them. When dealing with the forces of evil on a daily basis, it was understandable that the council did not limit its employees by hindering them with a long and tedious list of regulations, mainly because one could not control the uncontrollable or alter circumstances that had been predetermined by the powers. However, watchers were supposed to stay detached from their charges and always have thorough and detailed knowledge of their slayer’s location.
The first rule, where Buffy was concerned, was just impossible. The young girl simply would not allow anyone in her life to not feel something for her. Love, friendship, jealousy, even bewilderment were all acceptable; the only thing she wouldn’t recognize was indifference. As her watcher, he was supposed to treat her as a tool, as an instrument of the good and nothing else. He was to care about her welfare simply in accordance with the grand scheme of life, knowing that, if she were to die and another slayer called, it could take months or even years to train the next girl in the chosen line. According to the council, she was to be nothing more than a means to an end, but Buffy had too much passion for living, too much heart for him not to care about her, not to love her. Hell, he even adored her funny way with words, her puns and her jokes… even if they did make a mockery of the English language, not that he would ever share that particular detail with his slayer, mind you.
As for the second rule, due to his very much still human nature, there were limitations to the things he could do. While he could research and prepare Buffy for any battle she might need to face, he couldn’t very well enter those said battles with her and expect to survive. Sometimes, he did enter the fray but only when saving the world called for desperate measures and only when Buffy could no longer protest his involvement. However, on that particular evening, his slayer had entered the school alone, fully aware of the fact that it was being haunted by a desperate, destructive poltergeist, and he had been left standing on the outside, contained and helpless by a thick, congested swarm of enraged wasps.
Before they heard the gunshot, he had felt impotent and frustrated in his uselessness, not to mention annoyed seeing as how Xander had insisted upon attempting – and failing – to come up with jokes concerning a slayer, a ghost, and its band of merry bees, the teen’s words, not his. Of course, every single attempt at humor fell flat, leading Willow, kind, patient, compassionate Willow, to laugh charitably and Cordelia to mock and ridicule. Although such antics should have been able to distract him in a way only the inane can, they didn’t. Rather, their behavior simply reinforced the fact that there was a certain someone missing from their group, causing Giles to worry even more for Buffy.
After the gunshot, though, his feeling of dread increased tenfold. Naively, he had agreed with Willow that, since the wasps were keeping all others besides the slayer from entering the building, she would be safe from James until the spell lifted. However, he should have known better. One did not consciously live on the Hellmouth and placate themselves with empty delusions of hope. Bad things, terrible things happened daily, things that did not make sense, so surely a distressed spirit would find a way to reenact his past with or without the aid of common sense.
Soon after the haunting sound of a gun being fired erupted in his ears, the wasps disappeared, and the watcher along with the three teenagers entered the dark, forbidding school. They moved noiselessly, despite the fact that there seemingly was no one else there to hear them, searching for and failing to find the slayer they all, even Cordelia, cared so much about. Classroom after empty classroom, hallway after deserted hallway, their efforts proved futile.
After nearly half an hour, the Cordelia exploded, “this is pointless. Buffy’s not here.”
“And where else do you think she could be, Cordy,” Xander asked, sounding just as exasperated but for entirely different reasons.
“Uh, maybe at home in bed where I would like to be.” Despite not said, Giles could hear a distinct ‘duh’ at the end of the cheerleader’s statement, and he shuddered that his mind would even acknowledge such an utterly useless piece of slang.
“But there’s no way she could have gotten out of the school without us seeing her,” Willow argued.
“Hello, Buffy’s the slayer. If she can best vampires and kill all things that go bump in the night, I think she can manage to sneak past three ordinary teenagers and one washed up librarian.”
Contradicting Cordelia, Willow protested, “but the gunshot.” Blanching at her own words but continuing nonetheless, she persisted, “a gun wouldn’t just go without a reason, not even in Sunnydale and not even with a very frantic, slightly less than friendly Casper on the loose. Buffy’s here.”
“Or at least she was here at the time of the shooting,” the watcher agreed, ending the discussion. “I think it would serve our purposes better to, instead of considering how Buffy managed to leave, consider how someone else might have entered.”
“Nobody could have gotten past all those bees, G-Man,” Xander said, looking at the former British citizen as if he had finally lost his mind, “not unless they wanted to end up dead.” As soon as the words left his overly engaged mouth, Xander frowned. “Oh, this is not good.”
“Well, yeah, I could have told you that,” Cordelia stated in a rather bored sounding fashion. “Gunshot wounds and wasp bites do not make for a pretty sight. Buffy should just be thankful that we've already taken our school pictures this year.”
“I’m afraid that’s not precisely what Xander is referring to,” Giles corrected as smoothly as possible. If his instincts were leading him in the right direction, then he knew they were going to need all the manpower possible soon, and that included the cheerleader. “What he coincidentally realized while making yet another inappropriate joke…”
“It’s what he does, Giles,” Willow both commiserated and excused.
Ignoring the her interruption, Giles pressed on. “Yes, well, anyway, he recognized that, while no living person would have been able to withstand walking through that swarm of wasps, a dead person would.”
“Okay, yeah,” Cordelia agreed sarcastically, “except dead people don’t walk.”
“They do in Sunnydale,” Xander refuted. “Remember Deadboy, The Scourge of Europe, Buffy’s ex-main squeeze, that handsome, ornery rascal of a former souled vampire you oh-so-kindly invited into your car?”
“Hey, he was disinvited! There’s no reason to remind me of how close I came to being vampire vittles!”
“As fascinating as this is, this is not helping Buffy,” the watcher sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose in an effort to curtail his temper. “If Angel managed to get into the building with Buffy, then the two of them would have been able to reenact the past for James. We need to retrace their steps in order to figure out where Buffy might have gone and to see if…” To see if she was injured, but Giles refused to finish his own thought out loud.
“It happened before in the hallway where all the trophy cases are,” Willow helpfully pointed out.
“And it didn’t sound like the gun went off inside of the building, so maybe they were outside but close to it,” Cordelia added.
Looking at her doubtfully, Xander questioned, “and just how would you know that?”
“Hello, cheerleader here. I know this school’s acoustics better than you know the inside of your own locker.”
Ignoring the bickering couple, Willow started moving, knowing her three companions would follow her. While he was the first to do so, Giles heard and sensed both Cordelia and Xander doing so as well seconds later. “They must have been on the balcony,” Willow explained where she was going. “It’s close to the trophy cases, and the echo from the gunshot would be louder if they were there than it would have been if they were still inside. Plus, we haven’t looked there yet.”
Fearful of what they might find outside, Willow paused and allowed Giles to open the door and quietly exit the school first, quickly following rapidly behind him. However, as soon as the watcher set foot onto the balcony, he stopped dead in his tracks, the teens soon colliding into his immobile back. Though shocked and startled by his inaction, they soon understood why. There, on bright display, before them was a cryptic yet chilling apology written in what was doubtlessly warm, fresh blood. It was painted onto the school’s exterior as if whoever had written it had known they would soon discover the scene of the crime.
I’m sorry.
Though teasing in their deceptively lighthearted manner, Xander’s next words were anything but. “So, what do you think our chances are that Deadboy was the one who was shot and that’s his blood currently decorating the school?” Sighing crestfallenly, he answered his own question. “Yeah, I could never be that lucky.”
Following the trail of blood that went from the floor of the balcony to up onto the ledge, Willow whispered, “so, Angel played James, and Buffy played his teacher. He shot her here, she fell over and down, and, now, they’re both gone.”
“And James broke the spell, despite the fact that his past is still unresolved,” Giles added. “With Buffy, at least, temporarily out of commission, I highly doubt he’ll attempt another reenactment anytime soon. For now, I think it’s obvious that our focus needs to be on finding Buffy.”
“Uh, G-Man…” For the second time that evening, he ignored the horrid nickname, too worried and too exhausted to even attempt to chastise Xander for his continual use of it. “You of all people should know that ghosts don’t like to be ignored.”
“Yes, well, if this message,” he waved towards the bloody words, “is any indication, then James is feeling contrite for his actions. He obviously did not want to hurt anyone else, especially the one person who has been trying to and is probably the only one capable of helping him. Plus, need I remind you that, if Buffy is not here, the chances are that Angel took her somewhere.”
“Great! I guess that means we’re off to the bat cave. I knew I shouldn’t have worn my new shoes.” Realizing what she had just said, that she had made an inappropriate joke at an equally inappropriate time, Cordelia pouted some more, complaining, “ugh, I’ve been spending way too much time with you losers, especially you,” she added, shoving Xander away slightly before prancing back into the school.
Almost obediently, Giles and the other two teenagers followed. “Yes, well, I suppose the mansion is as good of a place to start as any. Come,” Giles directed needlessly. “We’ll take my car.”
( ~ )
The opportunity that had literally landed on his doorstep had been simply too priceless for Ethan Rayne to turn down. Traditionally, he preferred to use his skills and magic to bring chaos to the world, not to save slayers and help obsessed vampire’s, but there was an exception to every rule – as he knew well and good seeing as how he had probably broken every single one, and he certainly wasn’t above turning someone else’s misfortune into his own gain. However, with that said, he wasn’t about to invite the famous Angelus into his home. If nothing else, he was an opportunist and certainly not a suicidal one.
“Wait here,” he instructed the ruthless vampire as he cast a brief yet meticulous glance upon the injured slayer. Leaving his front door open, he explained, “I need to grab some supplies, and then we’ll leave.”
“Leave,” Angelus argued, chuckling humorously. “Oh, no, Rayne, we’re not going anywhere.”
“If you want me to help the slayer, we are. I’m not allowing you in, and, without an invite, we both know you can yell and scream all you want, you’ll still be stuck outside, and the chippy will then die in your arms. No, if you want my help, you’re going to have to take us somewhere else, somewhere safe. Then and only then will I do what I can to save the slayer.”
“Fine,” Angelus snapped, his demon visage overtaking his face as he glared in Ethan’s direction. “We’ll go back to the mansion.”
“I’m afraid that is out of the question as well. Your minions… what are their names? Spike and Drusilla? They can’t be around when I perform my spell. He’s too unpredictable, and she’s just insane. Plus, if I know Ripper, and I do, that’s the first place he’ll look for the two of you. And, please,” he scoffed, “do not even attempt to deny that her watcher and her little do-gooder friends are looking for her. You know they are, I know they are, and, hell, I bet even blondie there subconsciously knows it, too.”
With that, he made his way back towards his still open front door and locked it behind him, his supplies carefully stowed away in a corduroy shoulder bag. “Now, where to?”
Gritting his teeth, Angelus ordered, “follow me,” and that’s precisely what Ethan did, a jaunty, whistled tune flowing from his smirking lips during the entire, short trip.
As they approached the entrance to a rundown warehouse, he, once more, started talking. “For now, we’re not going to worry about her broken bones. She’s the slayer, so she’ll heal and quicker than anyone else in her shoes would. No, what we need to focus on is that gunshot wound. She’s lost a lot of blood.”
“No fuck, Sherlock!”
“I do believe that it’s supposed to be ‘no shit, Sherlock. You know, alliteration and all, but, given your current state of emotions, we’ll let that little gaffe go.” Chuckling to himself as the vampire growled underneath his breath, Ethan instructed, “just get her inside already unless you really would rather snarl at me than save her shamefully noble life.” As they entered the obviously unused apartment, the layers of undisturbed dust telling of its uninhabited nature, he nodded towards the unmade bed in the far corner. “Put her down over there and then take off your shirt.”
Although he followed the first direction, Angelus balked at the second. “What?”
“Tell me again exactly what kind of being has even superior healing capabilities than the slayer?” Seeing realization wash across Angelus’ face, Ethan grinned roguishly. “Yes, precisely. A vampire. I’m going to use your blood to make a salve for the slayer. I’ll apply it to the area of her wound, and, within a few hours, all that should remain as evidence of the bullet entering and both exiting her body is a tiny, puckered scar. She’ll be as good as new… well, except for the broken bones and all.”
As he set about preparing his potion, Ethan continued to instruct Angelus. “Make sure you bite yourself. Do not cut your skin open. Your saliva, due to its natural coagulator, will help to further close the wounds once the salve is applied.” Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as the Scourge of Europe did exactly as he was told, draining approximately a cup of blood into one of his wooden mortars. In the other one he had brought with them, the warlock combined many natural herbs – burdock root, cat’s claw, feverfew, in case the slayer was already experiencing the effects of shock and infection from her wounds, sarsaparilla, aloe vera, agrimony, elder leaves, goldenseal, Echinacea, passionflower, poppy, sage, St. Johnswart, and taheebo. He was cutting absolutely no corners when it came to treating the slayer. After all, the last thing he needed was some pissed off vampire gunning for him. He already had Ripper on his back, nipping away with his moral superiority.
“I’ll also need some bandages and tape in order to dress the wound after I’ve put the poultice on. If there aren’t any here, you’ll have to go out and get some.”
“Do you think that I would really leave you alone with her,” Angelus inquired darkly.
“Of the two of us, I’d say I would be the safer option.”
The vampire simply snorted in dispute with that statement. Turning his back upon Ethan, he mumbled, “I’m sure soulboy has a first aid kit around here somewhere.”
With that little admission, he realized they were currently in the apartment that had belonged to Angel – the souled version of the vampire before him, an interesting and curious revelation, though he wasn’t going to ask and he certainly wasn’t going to push for answers from Angelus. However, there were definitely some very significant events unfolding around him, ones that he knew would undoubtedly shape the future, and it gave Ethan a rush to know that he was both included in such a monumental affair and playing an extremely key role in it, one even more notable than Angelus realized.
Soon, though, all would be revealed – his role in saving the slayer’s life, the vampire’s motivations, and just how far he was willing to go in order to play with his old friend Rupert’s mind and heart. Revenge unquestionably was sweet. Surprisingly, though, sometimes it also came in an adorable, resilient blonde package.
Joined: Jun 2008 Gender: Female Posts: 893 Location: In Hell... i.e. Pennsylvania Karma: 6
Part 1 « Result #10 on Nov 25, 2009, 2:19pm »
Blind Love
Part One
He didn’t like to use the word hunt when thinking about his actions towards the slayer. Hunting implied killing, and, frankly, he just wasn’t ready to end their little lover’s spat yet. However, he had no qualms about the other aspects of the sport, for he certainly relished the idea of eventually mounting and stuffing the perky blonde… just not in the traditional sense. And, yes, eventually, he’d get rid of her. There were only so many stalemates that his reputation and ego could take, but, for now, she was safe… well, as safe as any human could be when being pursued, stalked, and haunted by a master vampire.
The cavalry was out tonight with her. He could smell their distinctive stench hovering pungently around the school. They – her watcher and friends – reeked of fear and apprehension but, naively, not for their own well being. Rather, they were concerned for the slayer, and it pissed him off that she was out there fighting some other bad and not focusing all her attention upon him. Although it wasn’t what he had planned for that evening, plans, even his, were meant to be broken, and taking the time to teach good old Buff a lesson on respecting her better… well, that certainly fit the bill.
As the dense swarm of bees parted for him to pass through, Angelus found himself curious as to just what exactly the slayer was facing inside the high school. Not that he was afraid or anything. No, certainly not that, but he wanted to use the other supernatural elements to his advantage. Normally, he didn’t play well with others, but, for Buffy, he’d make an exception.
Thanks to his oh so invigorating date with the gypsy slut weeks before, he knew his way around the building well. The halls were silent, though; his lover giving him no audible clue as to her location. However, he could smell her – that rich, undeniable, intoxicating scent that only Buffy possessed. The aroma of her blood could call him to her from anywhere, no matter how much distance separated them, and, as for her other scents – her adrenaline, her strength, her currently dormant but still always present tang of arousal, he relished in those as well.
She was standing by a trophy case when he first spotted her. With her back to him, he just watched the blonde bitch for several undisclosed moments, observing her for any weaknesses, anticipating their inevitable confrontation to come. But she was unaware of his presence, absorbed, no doubt, by her latest save the world or, at least, save Sunnydale mission, and that just wouldn’t do at all.
“Fun fact about wasps,” he prefaced, taunted, teased, gaining the slayer’s attention and announcing his presence at the same time. Visibly, he could see Buff tense as her entire being adjusted to his nearness. It was delicious how attuned she was to him. Smirking, he continued, “they have no taste for the undead. Not that a sting would do me any damage, it’s just… tonight’s special. I wanted to look my best for you.”
But something was off; something wasn’t right. She still had yet to turn around and face him, and her actions, her movements, they seemed hesitant, weakened, distracted. He knew that she wasn’t broken yet. After all, really, in comparison to others from the past, he had barely yet begun to truly play with her, but the woman before him was not his slayer. In fact, she was someone he barely recognized.
When she finally spoke, her voice was soft, tempered, a mere whisper on the still night air. “You’re the only one… the only person I can talk to.”
Now, this just wasn’t right. Yeah, he wanted her obsessed with him - her only thoughts to be about him, all her desires, even if they disgusted her and made a mockery of her calling, to be towards him, all of her feelings to be wrapped up in him, but this was too soon and… too easy. Her sudden shift made him nervous, but he refused to show that he was caught off guard, so, instead, he just ridiculed her. When everything else fails, go for what comes natural, right? “Gosh, Buff, that’s really pathetic.”
Twisting around so that he could finally see her face, he realized the slayer was close to tears… and he hadn’t really said anything yet. “You can’t make me disappear just because you say it’s over.”
“Actually,” he warned, stepping closer to her, savoring the idea she had just planted in his demented mind. In her present weakened state, it would be so simple to kidnap the slayer, to take her back to the mansion and keep her for his own personal… pet. She could be his favored snack, his personal sex slave, the puppet of which he sadistically controlled her manacled strings. Talk about Christmas and his birthday all tossed into one fine, nubile package. “I can. In fact…”
As her wide, vulnerable eyes stared up at him, her love and desperation screaming from every held back tear and whimper, Angelus felt a waver pass through him. It wasn’t anything overt. In fact, it was rather subtle, but, just the same, he knew that he wasn’t alone any more inside of his body. Something else, someone else was controlling what he said, what he did, and, although he was cognizant of both his surroundings and his actions, he no longer had the power to manipulate them.
Just as the sensation shuddered through him, he saw Buffy experience the same thing, as though one presence was fleeing her form while another one entered. When she spoke again, her voice was different, just as desperate but not nearly as emotional. It was like she was attempting to placate someone, sooth someone, sooth him. “I just want you to be able to have some kind of normal life. We can never have that. Don't you see?”
Inside, he wanted to laugh, he wanted to snicker at the absurdity of the words fleeing so convincingly from the slayer’s mouth, but he knew that it was no longer the slayer doing the talking. She was a pawn in this little game they were involved in, just like he was. Still, though, of all the sick, disgusting displays for a master vampire to be subjected to, he was stuck being possessed by a fucking teenage boy. Even as a human, he had not been so pathetic.
“I don’t give a damn about a normal life! I’m going crazy not seeing you.” He paused briefly, the spirit controlling him taking an unnecessary breath for the undead body he was occupying. “I think about you every minute.”
In the back of his mind, Angelus recognized the fact that maybe he wasn’t so different from the boy taking over his form. While the practically still pubescent little twit was obsessed with whomever it was possessing Buff’s body, he himself was obsessed with the tight little package before him as well. However, instead of tearful proclamations of love and devotion, he simply preferred mental torture and the occasional arousing fist fight. However, it still pissed him off that he was being pulled into something he didn’t give a rat’s ass about. And if anyone ever found out about this little stunt… Well, then, he’d just have to kill them first and worry about his reputation later.
Startling him slightly, though his poltergeist seemed prepared and pleased by the touch, Buffy placed her palm against his cheek, caressing him in a comforting, tender manner. “I know,” she sympathized. Before he could even adjust to her touch, she was already pulling away from him. “But it’s over,” she practically sobbed, turning around to flee. “It has to be,” she added as she ran off in the direction he himself had just emerged from minutes before.
Suddenly, he – the spirit within him – was furious. Chasing after the slayer, he bellowed, “come back here! We’re not finished!” Grabbing her by the arm, he spun her around to confront her. “You don’t care anymore, is that it?”
Buffy was sobbing. The demon inside of him rejoiced… even if it wasn’t the cause of the bitch’s misery, and the poltergeist simply hoped the blonde’s tears were an opening, a weakness it could exploit to its advantage. “It doesn’t matter; it doesn’t matter what I feel.”
“Then tell me you don’t love me,” he demanded harshly, roughly, desperately. Screaming, the master vampire ordered, “say it!”
Still crying yet attempting to be as composed, as unfeeling as possible given the situation, Buffy asked, “is that what you need to hear? Will that help?” Without waiting for a response, she added softly, “I don’t.” When those words escaped past her trembling lips, he didn’t step away. Rather, his only reaction was a harsh, frantic swallow. Even softer the second time, the possessed slayer repeated, “I don’t. Now let me go.” And, with that, she tried to walk away.
“No.” At first, his tone was filled with denial, but, quickly, it was reanimated with the anger he had felt just moments before. “A person doesn’t just wake up and stop loving somebody!” Before she could react, Angelus found himself reaching for a gun he didn’t even know he had. Cocking the weapon, he calmly stated, “love is forever.”
Inside, his demon was screaming. Sure, he didn’t like some other spirit controlling his body, but if it brought more suffering to the slayer, he would have been happy to play along. But a gun? A fucking gun?! That was escalating things way too quickly. He had plans, damn it – evil, torturous, cruelly vindictive plans, and nowhere in them did it include giving the stupid bitch an easy out by murdering her with a piece of fucking metal. But he couldn’t get through to the poltergeist. It was solely in charge, and it had no intentions of backing down. In fact, its brief moment of coolness rapidly vanished only to be replaced by the heated talons of bitter despondency once again.
“I’m not afraid to use it,” he warned the blonde across from him. “I swear!” With a domineering streak of jealousy, he warned, “if I can’t be with you…”
“Oh my god,” Buffy breathed out, fully frightened for her life at that point. At least, the spirit within her had the good sense to turn and run, but Angelus knew his own controlling spirit wouldn’t allow it to be over that easily.
“Don’t walk away from me, bitch!” Stalking after her, the soles of his boots slapping against the cold, impersonal tile of the high school floor, he gave chase. Running after her, he yelled, “stop it, stop it,” only to come to a stop himself once they both found themselves outside on the balcony, the possessed slayer several paces away right up against the railing.
“All right,” she agreed, breathing heavily. As she started to turn around, Buffy said, “just,” as if attempting to placate the youth controlling his body even if only for a few seconds. With her arms raised out in front of her, she looked timid and beseeching. “You know you don’t want to do this,” she warned once they were facing each other again. “Let’s both… just calm down.” Holding out her hand, she told him, “now, give me the gun.”
“Don’t, don’t do that, damn it,” he warned, the pitch of his voice rising with the amount of tension, panic, and anguish choking him. Waving the gun around chaotically in his hand, a haunted Angelus screamed, “don’t talk to me like I’m some stupid…”
And, just like that, the gun went off, and the spell was broken.
It had been an accident. He had certainly not wanted the slayer shot, and the fucking idiot that had control over his body, in that moment, hadn’t intended upon firing the weapon either, but that didn’t mean that there wasn’t a bullet lodged within his lover, and it certainly didn’t mean that the blossom of blood wasn’t growing ever wider over her black shirt and leather coat. Before he could react, the master vampire watched as the blonde across from him tumbled backwards in shock over the balcony’s railing, somersaulting to the ground below. Sickeningly, he heard her body smack excruciatingly against the concrete steps, her slayer strengthened bones no match for gravity, cement, and brick.
Without thought, he ran to edge, used his hands to push off, and jumped down to the sidewalk, landing as gracefully as a cat. The tantalizing scent of his lover’s blood hung heavily in the air, tempting him, but he pushed aside his thirst, his hunger for her and focused upon the task at hand. Yes, he wanted her to die, and, yes, it would be painful, but it certainly wasn’t going to be at the hand of some love sick teenage ghost. And it would be slow, and agonizing, and something Angelus could savor for centuries to come. Not like this.
Picking the slayer’s broken and battered body up easily in his arms, he ran from the school. He could physically feel her life expelling rapidly from her body, and he knew that he would have to act fast if he wanted her to live for him to torture her another day. And he was going to need help, too, more help than a hospital could provide him with and darker help than her watcher would be prepared to offer. There was only one person he could think of in Sunnydale who was powerful enough to do what he wanted done, and he knew that the spell caster was degraded enough to find plenty of sick, perverse pleasure out of the situation in order to assist him.
With Buff held tightly in his arms, he kicked at the man’s door, refusing to let go of the slayer long enough to knock. As the entry swung open, he observed the many emotions that displayed themselves upon the man’s face. First, there was shock, then slight trepidation, but, finally, and it was that emotion that Angelus was depending upon, there was greedy anticipation.
“Well, now,” Ethan Rayne murmured, chuckling softly to himself and grinning smugly. “This is certainly a welcome surprise.”
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