Siamese Whispers
by cheebs!
Rating: R
Disclaimer: The characters aren't mine. The idea for this story is,
however, and you can't have it. Since I will never be able to write enough
for a novel, I'm making no money off of this.
Spoilers: The Gift, some s6.
Inanity: Anime references in summary are unintentional but
funny. ^_~
PROLOGUE
(revised 10/11/02)
5-22-01, 8:50 PM, abandoned factory in Los Angeles, CA
Shit shit shit! I think my staking arm's broken. I know my head's broken - having it smacked into the cement wall hard enough can do that. Can't think about it, gotta keep going and ignore the blood that's dripping in my eyes and leaving a nice trail for the vamps to follow. Gotta focus - can't think about the pain. I'm not gonna give those Council fucks the satisfaction of being vamp food. I'll take whatever they throw at me and survive. It's what I do best.
Shit, what was that?!
Don't be an idiot. Calm down, you're breathing too loud, they'll hear you and there's no way you can take 'em both on at once. Only hope is to trick 'em into falling on a couple of shims or something, 'cause there's nothing I can use as a weapon with just one arm and no strength.
Don't know how long I've been here. Feels like days, but I know it's only hours. They said they'd come for me in the morning...not that I can tell night from day with the windows bricked up. No working clocks, either. What I do know is I'm hurt, powerless and wicked hungry. 'Course I got that down- low tickle going at the the worst fucking time, too. At least I can try to take care of that once I find a place to hole up. No way there's anything close to food in here, and if there is, it's long past its date. I'm lucky to have a sink with running water. I heard a person can survive about a month with just water...if I don't bleed to death first.
Better not think like that, Joyce wouldn't like it, and I owe her daughter big for telling me about this when they did it to her. If I didn't have warning I probably would've got killed in a yard fight, trying to defend myself from the Big Berthas, instead of curling up and taking a cracked rib that put me in the infirmary. Figured if I gotta lose the Slayerness, I may as well have a nicer bed and a t.v. to myself.
Okay...last door on this floor. Can't be too careful; Council wanted me dead last year, and I know some of them still do. Wouldn't surprise me to find a whole nest in here....
Yessssssss!!! It's empty! I can get my sorry ass back to that office I saw and barricade myself in for the... for the....
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
Datestamp: 8/29/02
Inanity: I love my beta readers, but they're slow as heck.
More Inanity: Eliza was the best part of City by the Sea. :)
Upward strike with the heel of your hand, shattering a nose and forcing bone into brain. Roundhouse kick, snapping his neck; kneeling; twisting; poof. One.
Sweep his leg, faster than his eyes can follow. Listen to the satisfying wet crunch of skull on cement and grin that grin you grin so well, that berzerker snarl that tells them death is coming and it's going to hurt, and you're going to get off on it. Elbow to his cheek as he starts to rise; another crunch and his head snaps back and forth like a child on a rocking-horse. Laugh, and watch him cringe. He knows who you are: the crazy slutty evil bitch whore they whisper about in the darkest nights; a cautionary tale to keep fledgelings in line.
He knows you are the last thing he will ever see.
Let it sink into his thick skull. Let his fear, agonisingly and unexpectedly sweet for a vamp, sink into you.
End it. Twist his head 'round so quickly it flies out of your hands and hits the wall before turning to dust. Two.
Jump up and shout your victory. Feel that post-Slayage need for food and release and be glad for privacy and your hand and pissed off at the lack of food and hate them for thinking you'd go down so easily.
And then...
Feel it, a deep, penetrating wrongness. You just ripped the heads off two vamps, yet you shouldn't have been able to, thanks to the Council's serum and a broken arm. Realise the arm is healing, and you're stronger than you've ever been. Let the knowledge wash over you.
Close your eyes. Feel your heart hammering and try to slow it, still it and listen for the echo of hers.
It does not come.
Your eyes widen in panic; far worse terror than the demon you'd just dusted. Your nostrils flare, like an animal scenting, searching for something, someone. Your breath catches. You will yourself silent, trembling all the while. Knowing.
Nothing.
Scream your anguish to the steel rafters. Cry, rant, rage, until your eyes are red and puffed shut, your voice is gone and your fists are bloody from wall-punching. Hate them, all of them, Scoob and demon and Council and gods, for letting her die, and before you could apologise. Hate yourself, for what you did that needed to be apologised for, and put you where you could be of no help to her. Tell yourself you're worse than any of them, because you could and should have been there, on the side of good.
Curl up in a ball. Tears won't come anymore, but that won't stop you from trying. Suddenly you wish you had let the vamps win. You wish you'd risked the blows, back in Angel's flat, and said your sorry's then. You wish once, just once, you'd stopped waiting for her to figure it out and told her how you felt about her. You wish you'd trusted her. You wish she'd trusted you.
You wish for a rope, or a blade, or a nail; anything that would allow you to end it or feel sensations beyond this wrenching heartache.
If wishes were fishes.... You don't know the rest, but you couldn't finish the thought anyway. You can't finish any thought, can't get any to form beyond the absolute certainty that Buffy is gone, probably for good.
Grieve. Howl. Claw at your arms, too perfect and clean for all the blood on your hands. Watch in fascination as the skin changes color, splits, oozes red life, and know that she will never bleed again. Wonder if she bled in death. Wonder how she died. Wonder why you haven't died in all these years. Wonder if it's all just a cosmic joke with you as the butt of it.
Stop, finally exhausted even with your newfound strength and, in part, because of it. Lie down and stare at a spot on the wall until your vision blurs with the effort. Drift off into a restless slumber punctuated with nightmares that cause you to thrash and cry out.
Wait for the day, and the rest of your life as the Chosen One.
Thanks: A huge thanks goes out to Adam, for giving me a crash course in Giles-speak.
London, England; September 2001
Giles:
The ringing phone wakes me at what my internal clock insists is an appallingly early hour, despite the bright sunlight streaming through the blinds. I'm momentarily confused, but quickly remember I'm back in England...and as quickly recall why. Renewed grief strikes like a blade, and I nearly forget to answer the call.
"Rupert Giles," I say into the receiver, cradling it on my shoulder as I reach for my glasses.
"Hello, Mr. Giles." The voice is soft and cultured, with a slight lisp. "My name is Howard Blaine. I don't know if you recall me from your brief tenure in Research...."
Blaine...an image comes to mind of a slight young man, years my junior, with the pale skin and dark under-eye circles that come from late nights spent researching. He had been studying to be a doctor. "Yes, vaguely. How are you, Mr. Blaine?"
"Please, call me Howard - may I call you Giles?" He ignores my question - must be a business call.
"Of course. What can I do for you, Howard?" I sigh, feeling the burden of Council responsibilities and old loyalties weighing yet again on my shoulders.
The tone of the dead air changes, sounding like a conchshell held to the ear; the phone has been covered. "I cannot speak any further at present." His voice has dropped to a whisper. He is not alone. "Can we meet?"
I answer in the affirmative and give the address of a nearby American-style coffee house. He agrees to meet me there for afternoon tea - quite amusing, really.
I fumble the handset into its cradle, still hurting from the previous night's binge. I begin polishing my glasses on my shirt only to realise that it's filthy and will make matters worse. With a sigh I put them on and look at the clock - two hours to my meeting with Blaine. Two hours in which to shower, find reasonably-close-to-pressed clothes that aren't too dirty, run a comb through my hair...
But first, get a drink....
I recognise Blaine easily when I arrive at the coffee house, only 20 minutes late and what passes these days as sober. He is already seated; the only man under 50 in the place with tea. I make my way over and sit, offering my hand out of habit more than courtesy. There is no need for introductions or pleasantries, and likely no time. He appears very nervous, his eyes constantly scanning the room and the pavement beyond the plate glass window.
Right - down to business. "What is so important that you needed to see me in person, Howard?"
"First, let me offer my condolences. Miss Summers was a Slayer of unparalleled strength and courage - a true hero in every sense. I was very sorry to hear of her passing."
The part of me that isn't taken completely aback by his sympathy wants to reach out and throttle him. Hearing these words from someone who never knew her is hard. "Yes, well...thank you," I force out. "Now, what do you want?"
Silence.
"Howard?"
"Yes...it's difficult to put into words, forgive me." His voice is horribly tense and he clears his throat. "It's...it's the other Slayer, sir...."
I'm suddenly struck by a chill and shiver, my hackles rising. I say as calmly as I can manage, "You'll understand when I say I want nothing to do with her."
"I understand as well as anyone who was not eyewitness to her exploits can. Please believe that I wouldn't have called if it weren't a matter of the utmost impor--"
"What I understand," I manage to grind out through clenched teeth, "is that a girl I loved as my own daughter is dead, and you wish to speak to me about another who caused her grievous emotional and physical harm! She's a vicious, cold-blooded murderer who should be put down!" I'm so furious that I'm shaking. How dare he?!
"That is roughly what Travers said. Her case goes before the Elders in a week's time."
What? "Hasn't he racked up enough of a body count trying to have her executed?" I ask, irritated.
"I'd say so, yes," he returned wryly. "There will only be one death this time, however: hers."
Now I'm intrigued, and disgusted at myself for wanting to be there to watch. I try to maintain my indifferent facade. "Oh?"
My face must betray some of my elation, for his shows disgust. "If you asked, Travers would probably give you first shot. This won't be an execution; it'll be murder."
"She deserves no less."
He looks horrified. "Good God, listen to yourself, man!" he hisses, standing, slamming a hand angrily on the table, causing our cups to jump and spill on their saucers. "She is not that same girl! If she were, they wouldn't have needed me to care for her!"
"Explain; but please, do sit. People are staring."
He blushes a deep crimson and seats himself quickly, ducking his head and folding his hands on the table, heedless of the slowly spreading puddle of tea.
I signal the waitress for refills and cleanup as I await his explanation. I can sense he wants to run. I'll be damned if I dragged myself down here to leave empty-handed.
We receive fresh cups. He wraps his hands around his, as if they're cold. He calms; his face returns to a normal tone. Finally, he speaks: "Shortly after you began your training, I began medical school. I was top in my class. I was awarded a fellowship in Neurology."
I pull off my glasses and begin polishing them out of habit and boredom. I didn't come here to hear his life's story! "That girl needs a psychiatrist, not a neurologist."
"Perhaps before she sustained severe trauma. Now...now I'm uncertain what she needs."
"Trauma? What?" What is he nattering on about?
A fat manila envelope is pushed across the table. "Everything is in there," he says, gesturing at it. "If you care - if you haven't forgotten your Watchers' Oath - you'll find everything you need to stop what Travers and his followers are trying to do. If you'd like to arrange a visit, my number is written inside the flap." He stands and dons his coat.
I stand as well, infuriated that this man, who knows nothing of Buffy and so little of me, dares question my fealty! "How dare you?!" I grind out. "I fulfilled my duties to my Slayer!"
He gives me a contemptuous look. "You swore your loyalties to the Slayer, not your Slayer. I'm certain I don't need to remind you that you did once swear allegiance to this very girl." With that, he leaves.
Left in solitude, I sip at my nearly cool Earl Grey, staring at a package that both intrigues and nauseates me. By the time I finish my drink, I've begun leafing through the various reports - prison, medical, school, child services and Council - that comprise Faith's file. The envelope also contains a few CDs labelled "security video;" I'll have a look when I return to my flat. I know they won't affect the decision I've already made.
God help us all.
...to be continued...