Summary: B/A(us). Repercussions. Post "Sororis", about 2 weeks later.
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Thwack!
Thud!
Hiss. Nurse wrist. Again.
"Ugh!"
Another buffet adds momentum to the already crazily swinging punching bag.
Swing left, swing right, bounce off the nearest solid object, which happens to be the bookcase housing the complete set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica bound in tasteful brown imitation leather and you get -
Contact.
Groan!
Volume after volume cascades off the teetering structure, till the whole gives a despairing sigh and succumbs to the inevitable.
But if I'M going down, I'm taking you with me!
Domino effect.
Crash!
Thud!
Crash!
Thud!
CRASH!
Enter startled librarian in his best tweed, holding a cup of steaming tea, followed closely by concerned red head and geek friend.
Alexander Lavelle Harris once again proves his startling command of English by his all too apt exclamation.
"Zoinks!"
"Jinkies!" Adds not-to-be-outdone red haired bitch. I mean witch.
All eyes pan to blonde beauty standing in the midst of carnage. She catches the bag in mid ricochet, and is now hugging it rather sheepishly.
Mumbles, "Sorry."
The librarian tweaks his glasses with the hand not holding the cup, and lets it remain near his head as he speaks. His words are mild, considering the amount of damage he sees and the knowledge that as someone has to go out patrolling really soon, she won't be around to pick up the pieces.
"Commendable as your, erm, enthusiasm is, Buffy, next time... try to reduce the fustigation."
"The WHAT?" demands our boy Lavelle, in his relentless quest to 'make his speaky English good.'
"Fustigation." Says the serious auburn one. "To, you know, like, make with the fists and beat up."
Mr. Harris shakes his head, probably marvelling at the depth and breadth of the knowledge this quiet man in tweeds possesses.
"Gosh, Giles, if you just spoke English like the rest of us -"
"You would score even less on your vocabulary tests, yes, I know. No need to thank me Xander." Says our man of the hour, effectively rendering the boy slack jawed and silent.
"Buffy, isn't it about time for your patrol."
"Yeah, thanks, Giles. But maybe I should stay and help you guys pick this up."
"Well- "
"But no, you're right, I'll only be in the way, so I'll - vamoose!" And picking up a duffel bag full of implements, the incredible vanishing slayer gives the stunned trio a demonstration of her powers.
Well.
Said trio look at each other for only a moment before snapping back to reality and shrugging their shoulders.
"I'll make a pot of tea." Says Giles. "We'll probably need it by the end of tonight."
"And oh, Xander," digging into his pockets for a fistful of loose change, "Get whatever caffeine laced sugar items you'll require to sustain yourself. You're going to help me put those shelves back up, while Willow sorts the books."
Which effectively silences the boy for the second time in one evening. Quite a record, muses the red haired one.
End Scene 1. Fade out.
Scene 2. Next evening. Training.
"Oof!" As a stick connects with his mid section, he doubles up in pain.
Grunt!
"Aah!" Her left swing takes him by surprise, and his jaw loses all sensation for about one second, after which it all floods back with startling clarity.
Breathe.
Punch! "Gaaah!" Her fist suddenly connects with his ribs, and he can hear them crack.
"Buffy, enough!"
Hiss. Swing in for another round, and this time he tastes the blood seeping out onto his lower lip. It stings, but is overridden by her taking a fistful of hair and using it as a grip to aid in slamming his head against the wall.
"Buffy, I said, ENOUGH!" He cries helplessly as he is pounded fiercely, mashed into becoming one with concrete and stone. It absorbs his blood and screams until suddenly the pressure is relieved, and he can sink down to the floor, letting it bear his weight as he tries desperately to curb the urge to vomit.
Shaking, he looks up, into the four terrified youthful faces, three of who are holding the fourth hostage. She is not struggling, but as the werewolf, his mate and the geek hold on to her hands, her eyes are curiously blank holes cut into a mask of fear and self-hatred.
He knows what she requires, if not what she needs, so he gives it to her, to them. Weakly he chuckles and runs a trembling hand through his hair.
"You win, Buffy. You can, erm, whip my ass anytime."
Her face registers the words slowly, but faster than the others do. Swiftly she slips into the role and speaks in a light tone, "Yea, I told you so Giles. So, can I go to the Bronze tonight?"
"Yes, yes, we can forgo the rest of this training session." He manages a laugh within his usual octave range. "I think the trainer needs a spot of tea and a nap."
The three teenagers let their friend walk out uncontested into the night, mechanically responding to her goodbyes with a wave.
"You should really take more care of yourself, G-man." Says the geek.
"Yea, Giles, ease up on yourself." Chimes in the witch.
The werewolf merely squats down to his level and looks him in the eye. "Willow, Xander, go put on the kettle."
They leave silently, perhaps eagerly.
Oz looks at him, considering.
He stares back, un-winking.
With a look of compassion, Oz rises, and offers him a hand. "You are going to have to talk about it soon, you know."
And this time, the librarian flinches.
Fade scene 2. Cut across town to -
Scene 3.
A garden by moonlight. The flowers may be roses or night blooming orchids, but the sickly sweet stench of rotten lilies pervades all.
The couple moaning and thrashing about in the grass are uncaring, unless the frequent oh yeses are meant to spur the plants to greater effort.
A final, agonized grunt, a prolonged shudder, a sticky withdrawal. He wipes himself on the grass and rolls over.
Its times like this, I wished I smoked cigarettes, thinks the dark one. It would prevent me having to say anything and make me feel a lot less stupid than I always do after sex.
You always found it easy to be with the Slayer afterwards.
He snarls at himself, which the woman takes to mean renewed arousal. She crawls over to him, stalking him like a cat, though her body language says submissive.
She plants herself over him, hands braced and supporting her upper body clearly in the moonlight. Her hair is wild and beautiful, cascading down over her breasts and back, a damp river that any man would long to bathe in.
Then why does he want to stay dry?
"Grrh." She grins and bares her teeth. "Grr-rrh." She nuzzles the hollow of his throat, sharp little teeth tasting, touching and nipping. Growling, she buries her face below his chin, while her body lowers down to his, moulding and reshaping to the contours.
For a second he contemplates throwing her off, but his body channels boredom into the only available outlet. And it saves thinking of something to say.
But even as his back arches and she growls in happy anticipation, he feels the chains tightening around his chest, constricting his ribcage and leaving him no room to breathe.
Even though he has done without breath for over 2 centuries, this time, it really hurts.
Pan out from scene. Sweep to the left to see a figure in a wheelchair, his face lit by an eerie glow. Take time to breathe, as you realize that it is just the flare of a matchstick that he used to light a cigarette.
Stonily he takes the air into already dead lungs, letting them be warmed for a while. And his eyes remain riveted to the couple on the lawn, hungrily taking in every loathsome detail, with the avidity of a health freak eating a ten pound chocolate cake after weeks of starvation.
End scene 3. Cut to the Summers' residence.
Buffy is inside the washroom, sitting on the toilet seat. The lid is down.
On the floor in front of her is the open duffel bag. She can see the stakes inside, the thermos flask of Holy water, and the crossbow in case she decides to stake out a vampire safe house tonight.
Dark red night lilies hair blood pain always the pain so much pain and fear fear fear hurt pain bloody fear
Her body is racked by shudders.
Not a safe house. Not tonight.
A glint inside the bag; and she takes out the machete. Small, sharp and essential for those decapitating moments.
She places it on the sink, the blade facing her.
Blade.
Sharp.
Cool.
Clean.
Blade...
Slowly, almost wonderingly, she touches a cheek where the remembrance of a scar lingers.
So soft.
She raises her other hand towards the edge of the blade and lets the palm rest against it.
She can feel it almost touching, almost cutting; can hear it whispering sweet expectancy and welcome.
She gives in.
"Buffy?"
She freezes, vein against the steel, a touch more pressure required to release the fatal thin line of red that will signal the end of her pain.
"Buffy!"
Her mother's voice, happy and confident.
Steps coming up to her room. The sound of the door opening, and the firm knocks on the bathroom door.
"Honey, your ride's here. You forgot to tell me again, didn't you?" "She's just getting ready!" Her mother yells in parenthesis to someone who is possibly standing in the hallway, waiting politely.
Two more knocks, gentle and firm.
"I know you can hear me in there, so don't pretend. I'll expect Cordelia to drop you home by 10 p.m., and don't think you can get around me, do you understand? Tomorrow is a school day."
Buffy is still frozen, assimilating this sudden intrusion into what promised to be the most private moment of her life. However, strangely enough, some latent teenage rebellion genes kick in at this last statement of parental authority.
"Mom! Are you kidding? Ouch!"
The wrist slipped and her thumb caught the edge of the machete. She holds it up to the light, admiring the streak of bright red.
"Buffy? Are you ok in there?" Immediate concern.
Remorse stabs, but not too sharply. "Yea, fine, Mom. Cut myself shaving."
"Oh." A beat. "Don't we have safety -?"
"Mom! I'd like some privacy in the bathroom!"
"Right, I'm sorry. It's just that I'm so excited that you're finally going out after 2 weeks inside the house. Listen to me, happy that my daughter is going out on a school night. I should have my Mom license revoked."
Oh great, Mom. Pick now for a time of open sharing between mother and daughter. Let me know all your insecurities about being a good parent. Dump it all, why don't you.
"Mom!"
"Sorry honey, going, going. Would you like me to send Cordelia up?"
"No - YES! Yes, please." Don't want Cordelia getting too cosy with my mother in this state.
"Ok." Sound of steps retreating down the stairs, and then blessed, blessed silence.
Buffy regretfully stuffs the machete into the bag. Wonders what Cordy wants.
Whatever it is, it probably beats sitting on a toilet seat waiting for the guts to slit your wrists.
Then again, maybe not.
~End Part 1.
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Rating: R for violence and disturbing imagery.
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Disclaimer: I do not own, nor do I make any profit from these characters outlined below. And my interpretation of them may not necessarily coincide with what their creator intended.
Note: 1830 S. Cooper Dict. Pract. Surg. (ed. 6) 607 - Sometimes the fracture [occurs] elsewhere, as the effect of what the French call a contre-coup.