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sb_fag_ends2015-10-26 09:37 pm
baphrosia.livejournal.com) wrote in sb_fag_ends2015-10-26 09:37 pm
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Prompt: The Creepy Case of Old Iron Face (angst)
Prompt: The Creepy Case of Old Iron Face
Setting: S3 "Lovers Walk AU", following Part Three
Rating: I'm upping the rating to R for the rest of these prompts. It turned out darker than I expected.
Words: 580
A/N1: Part 4 of 8 (so far)
A/N2: The individual parts of this story are not always Spuffy-centric, but the overall story is. So I hope that's okay...
A/N3: This is going darker than I expected. Read with caution.
Buffy sits up with a gasp, and gasps again when the abrupt movement tugs painfully at the scar that runs in a diagonal slash from the flesh above her upper lip and through the lower one towards her chin.
She’s woken from the same dream every night for the past week, visions of Spike and Sunnydale dancing in her head.
On the far side of the room, Bernard Crowley is watching her, huddled in his armchair like an overgrown bat. “You know it’s a Slayer dream, Buffy,” he says. His tone is gentle, but firm.
“I know no such thing.”
“You have to go.”
“I really don’t.” Buffy stretches, briskly and efficiently, and stands up. She fluffs the couch pillows out and puts them back where they belong, then folds the blankets, ignoring the man in the corner. “I’m needed here,” she says when his silence overwhelms her own.
“Cleveland will survive your absence, I’m fairly certain. She and I were doing just fine before you arrived.”
Buffy purses her lips. Her scar twinges, so she presses them together instead, imagining her face emotionless. Like an iron mask. For some reason, that always lessens the pain. “I’m not going back there.” She doesn’t specify where, and Crowley doesn’t ask. Probably because he’s already guessed but is too polite to say, just like she’s guessed that he’s an ex-Watcher. (The tweed is the real giveaway, more so than the knowing what she is.)
“If your dreams are telling you, then you must. Or have you already forgotten what happened the last time you tried to ignore them?”
Her scar flares white-hot, as if she needs the reminder. Over the past two weeks, it’s gone from what should have been one of a set of mortal wounds (and probably would have been, if Crowley hadn’t found her in that alley) to a thick, ropy ridge of flesh. And while it will probably continue to heal, Buffy’s pretty sure there’s going to be a permanent mark.
There goes her modeling career.
“I had a call from an old friend this morning. He happened to mention that an ex-colleague of mine has been searching high and low for his Slayer these past months.” Crowley ignores Buffy’s sudden jerk and startled deer-in-the-headlights look. “I knew Rupert Giles back when he was a young man at the academy, and he always struck me as being very much like myself. Inclined to becoming a little too attached to his charge. So when I heard this, I found myself empathizing with the amount of distress he must be experiencing. Wondering if perhaps I could ease his worry in some way.”
“And did- did you? Ease his worry?” Buffy’s voice is much higher and smaller than she would like.
“I don’t believe that will be necessary, do you?” Crowley leans forward. His eyes are warm and understanding. Too understanding. “It’s time to go home, Buffy. You are needed there, and not just because your dreams are telling you so.”
Though he looks nothing like Giles, other than the tweed, Buffy is suddenly struck by the resemblance. She turns away, her chest tight and her vision blurry.
She feels a large, steady hand rest lightly on her shoulder for the briefest of moments. It’s gone sooner than Buffy would like, and then Crowley is pressing something into her hand. When she’s finally able to pull herself together enough to see that it’s a one-way ticket to Sunnydale, he’s gone.
Setting: S3 "Lovers Walk AU", following Part Three
Rating: I'm upping the rating to R for the rest of these prompts. It turned out darker than I expected.
Words: 580
A/N1: Part 4 of 8 (so far)
A/N2: The individual parts of this story are not always Spuffy-centric, but the overall story is. So I hope that's okay...
A/N3: This is going darker than I expected. Read with caution.
Buffy sits up with a gasp, and gasps again when the abrupt movement tugs painfully at the scar that runs in a diagonal slash from the flesh above her upper lip and through the lower one towards her chin.
She’s woken from the same dream every night for the past week, visions of Spike and Sunnydale dancing in her head.
On the far side of the room, Bernard Crowley is watching her, huddled in his armchair like an overgrown bat. “You know it’s a Slayer dream, Buffy,” he says. His tone is gentle, but firm.
“I know no such thing.”
“You have to go.”
“I really don’t.” Buffy stretches, briskly and efficiently, and stands up. She fluffs the couch pillows out and puts them back where they belong, then folds the blankets, ignoring the man in the corner. “I’m needed here,” she says when his silence overwhelms her own.
“Cleveland will survive your absence, I’m fairly certain. She and I were doing just fine before you arrived.”
Buffy purses her lips. Her scar twinges, so she presses them together instead, imagining her face emotionless. Like an iron mask. For some reason, that always lessens the pain. “I’m not going back there.” She doesn’t specify where, and Crowley doesn’t ask. Probably because he’s already guessed but is too polite to say, just like she’s guessed that he’s an ex-Watcher. (The tweed is the real giveaway, more so than the knowing what she is.)
“If your dreams are telling you, then you must. Or have you already forgotten what happened the last time you tried to ignore them?”
Her scar flares white-hot, as if she needs the reminder. Over the past two weeks, it’s gone from what should have been one of a set of mortal wounds (and probably would have been, if Crowley hadn’t found her in that alley) to a thick, ropy ridge of flesh. And while it will probably continue to heal, Buffy’s pretty sure there’s going to be a permanent mark.
There goes her modeling career.
“I had a call from an old friend this morning. He happened to mention that an ex-colleague of mine has been searching high and low for his Slayer these past months.” Crowley ignores Buffy’s sudden jerk and startled deer-in-the-headlights look. “I knew Rupert Giles back when he was a young man at the academy, and he always struck me as being very much like myself. Inclined to becoming a little too attached to his charge. So when I heard this, I found myself empathizing with the amount of distress he must be experiencing. Wondering if perhaps I could ease his worry in some way.”
“And did- did you? Ease his worry?” Buffy’s voice is much higher and smaller than she would like.
“I don’t believe that will be necessary, do you?” Crowley leans forward. His eyes are warm and understanding. Too understanding. “It’s time to go home, Buffy. You are needed there, and not just because your dreams are telling you so.”
Though he looks nothing like Giles, other than the tweed, Buffy is suddenly struck by the resemblance. She turns away, her chest tight and her vision blurry.
She feels a large, steady hand rest lightly on her shoulder for the briefest of moments. It’s gone sooner than Buffy would like, and then Crowley is pressing something into her hand. When she’s finally able to pull herself together enough to see that it’s a one-way ticket to Sunnydale, he’s gone.