Chances
Author: Taramisu
Rating: I'd imagine NC-17 eventually -> PG-13 now
Summary: The obligatory post finale fic
Pairing:
B/W, W/OC
A/N: Thanks be to the beta, who makes all things possible: Jacqueline
Chapter 2
Something Old - Something New
She stood, poised for action, atop the Quickie Mart. Her golden hair blew around her head in mockery of a cheap romance novel cover.
Whitened knuckles clenched a stake to the left as her other hand clasped the brick wall that came up to her waist. Any other young
female with a fresh manicure, pedicure, hair dye and highlights would cringe at the thought of even so much as setting foot in a
neighborhood such as this one – let alone crawling up the damp, sticky walls of an inner-city building. Buffy realized this and
thought to herself, `But this is the life of the Slayer.'
Correction, my dear: *a* Slayer.
Twelve younger women who also held the title of Slayer remained hidden about the area while their venerated leader scoped out the
situation. It has all begun with a phone call from Willow. A new
apocalypse, she had said. She had even hinted that this was the apocalypse. At first, Buffy refused to entertain such a
notion. After all, apocalypses came annually in singles. They had
just averted this year's. However, when the location was revealed as L.A., her mind began to change. She had obsessed over the situation during the entire
plane ride to
the States. If Angel hadn't enlisted her help in this supposed final fight, then he must be on the wrong side…again. Funny. She hadn't
been one to see the world as a volleyball game where one could switch sides as easily as walking under the net. But she had learned much
about the nature of good and evil over the past eight years. Enough to know that anything was possible, and probably would happen,
especially if it was what you feared most.
Buffy frowned at the lack of action. Basically, she had seen two cats mating behind the green dumpster, a drug deal under the `Sex
Shack' rear awning, and a homeless man crying. She picked up her cell and dialed from memory.
"Buffy?" She heard her name in a cellular phone distorted Willow voice.
"Yeah. It's me," she responded laconically as she ran her hands through her hair to remove it from her line of vision.
"How'd it go? You're not done already, are you?"
"Well, I've been standing up here forever and haven't seen a thing… unless you count cat sex as detrimental to society. Oh! And I see
my hair frizzing in this wind."
"Huh."
"Huh? Huh?! I flew all the way from Italy to L.A., the last place in the world I'd want to be, and all you have to say is `Huh?'"
Buffy attempted to remove her hair from her face once again, only to
see it fly right back to where it had started.
"Maybe you missed it."
Finally fed up with her locks, Buffy turned around to face into the wind. "If I missed it, then I think it's fair to say someone beat us to the fight, because I see no
demons causing trouble. The only trouble is the human kind, and, you know what? I think I'm
outta here…before I run into a certain someone. Ciao, Willow."
"Wait! Buffy, don't hang up!" Willow continued when she realized Buffy had not hung up on her. "What if it hasn't happened yet?
Don't you think you should hang out for a few days, just to make
sure?"
Buffy huffed a huff that would rival any huff huffed by Dawn. "As usual, you're right." After a beat, she continued, "And I hate you
for that."
"I'm sorry, Buff. I know you don't want to be there. But it's really for the best. You probably won't even run into anyone you
know."
"Yeah, yeah. I'll talk to you during the debriefing when I get home."
"Wait!"
Buffy gave a watered down version of her previous huff. "What?"
"Tell Kennedy I said `Hi'?"
Buffy knew very well that things weren't going well between the two, and she could barely bring herself to get in the middle of it. But
Willow had been her friend for a long time, and she owed her that much. "Will do!" she forced out perkily.
She flipped the phone shut and took one last look at the alleyway that Willow had assured her would be home to the next apocalypse.
The cats had finished their business and had gone their separate directions, the druggies were long gone, and the homeless guy was now
curled up in a little ball. The last thought she spared to this place before forgetting it forever was to the homeless guy's strange
clothes. Who would wear a tweed dress suit with a vest in California's hot May weather? She shrugged it off, remembering that
society's ills were out of her jurisdiction, then signaled her Slayer
team to gather at the predetermined meeting place.
*****************
In the blink of an eye, everything had changed. The extreme change in scenery made William think there had to be something wrong with his eyes…or perhaps he had some mysterious fever. William removed his spectacles to rub his eyes, then replaced them carefully. But when he reopened said eyes, the strange landscape remained. Gone was the strange, dark lady, the horses, the bales of hay. In fact, William had to wonder if he were still in London, as the weather was suddenly quite warm and dry. He longed to loosen his tie or remove his coat, but could not on principle. Anyone could come along and see him in that state of undress. Then what would they all be saying about him? It was bad enough that he had made an utter fool of himself at the Garsdale gala. But now his humiliation was complete, what with Samuel Garsdale’s public reading of his very private poetry and Miss Cecily Underwood’s subsequent powerful rejection of his offer of love. Before he could begin contemplating where he was, he found himself overcome with panic.
While his mother had taught him better than to address commoners with unconfirmed intentions, he felt as if he had no choice but to do so. Certainly the men across the way would know where he was.
The taller of the two
noticed the strangely dressed man first. “What do we have here, Little Joey?”
Little Joey smiled evilly and joined in on the fun. “Looks like someone's a
little lost. Hey, Sal, you want we should help him out?”
William swallowed nervously and examined the men in front of him. They were dressed quite oddly. Their pants gave them
away as the poor working class; perhaps the garments were made of some sort of
burlap. They wore thin shirts with no sleeves, and boots that stopped below the
ankle. He had never seen such apparel worn out in proper company.
“Yes, please, if you would,” the gentle, Victorian man squeaked out. “I have found
myself in a bit of a bind as I cannot remember how I got here, nor where here
actually is. Pray, tell, what part of London is this?”
Joey and Sal stared open-mouthed at the simpleton, then at each other, a gleam
in their eyes. “London? What’s wrong with you, man? You escape from the
loony bin?”
“Loony bin?” William repeated slowly. “I do not understand. I have crawled
out of no bin. I admit my clothes have seen better days, but I have had a rather
disconcerting evening and do wish to go home.”
While he had expected to obtain some assistance from these two men, all hope for
help dissipated upon seeing Sal’s less than charitable expression. Suddenly,
someone’s fist, exactly whose William would never be able to say, flew toward
his nose, making contact, and sent his body flailing to the ground. While he
struggled to maintain consciousness, the ruffians rifled through his
pockets, stole his purse and then made their getaway.
Things could not possibly get any worse.
William crawled to the corner and curled his body into a ball. His plan: rest,
let the blinding pain from his nose improve, then attempt to find some safe
haven. Once he found a benevolent benefactor, all would be well again.
Just when his mood had begun to improve, he felt something drop onto his
back…then his head…then his hand. Rain. It was raining.
Correction, my dear: it was pouring rain.
**************
Thirteen
young ladies. Three hotel rooms. Three bathrooms. Six beds. Not an ideal
situation, but this was the most the New Council could afford. At least the
Slayers were given airfare and not forced to travel on cargo ships, bedded down
with the cargo and livestock. ‘Now, now,’ Buffy reminded herself, ‘I
should be grateful for the three rooms we have.’ She thought back to the
argument she had had with Giles. He, being a middle aged man, could not
comprehend why such small girls couldn’t deal with similarly small
accommodations. After all, their young bodies could certainly sleep on the
floor.
Buffy rolled her eyes at Giles’ naïveté and continued toward the motel. She
had assumed she would have a few minutes alone before her roomies showed up.
Accordingly, she entered the room, pointedly ignoring the stains on the worn,
grey rug and off-off-white walls, and headed straight for the bathroom. Her body
hit the locked door with a thud.
“I’m in here!” a muffled voice called from inside.
“Figures,” Buffy said under her breath. Her bladder expressed its need to
empty and its owner began to tap her foot restlessly. Just when she was about to
try another room, the bathroom’s usurper exited.
The slight girl eyed Buffy’s impatient form and instinctively apologized, her
head hanging low.
“No biggie, Mel.” Buffy had wondered from the minute she met Melissa why the
shy, gentle girl had chosen to embrace the Slayer legacy. It wasn’t as if she
were a natural with the training. She more often than not tripped over her own
two feet while attempting the simplest of moves.
Melissa shuffled out of the doorway, her long, brown hair swishing behind her
and Buffy’s bladder once again made itself known while she waited. Sunlight
filled the room, followed by a boisterous voice as the front door swung open.
“Oo! Bathroom’s free!” Before Buffy had a chance to walk in, Kennedy
commandeered the room with a decisive slam of the door.
Buffy turned her surprised face to Melissa. “Tell me that didn’t just
happen.” The subsequent smile on the teen’s face strongly reminded Buffy of
her late friend Tara – almost so much that she nearly hugged the girl.
“You could always try next door,” Melissa said with a kind smile.
Which is exactly what Buffy did. Try.
When she entered room 106, a stray sock ball beaned her in the forehead. A quick
survey of the area revealed two Slayers arguing over a handwritten journal, and
two more throwing items at the bathroom door and muttering mild curses and
threats to the inhabitant within. Buffy promptly backed out the way she had come
in and closed the door with a quiet click.
Room 102 was no better. ‘How the hell did they get back here so fast?’ Buffy
sighed and chastised her bladder for being so small and irritable.
***********
Officer
Trent rubbed the base of his neck in an attempt to wipe away his ire with the
chief. Sure, his quota was low. You can’t catch many criminals when you’re
giving them all the benefit of the doubt. He felt for the people of L.A. No, he
wouldn’t hesitate with your garden-variety thief, scum-bag drug dealer, or
would-be murderer, but he held the homeless and prostitutes in a special place
in his heart. They weren’t really hurting anyone but themselves. Why did Chief
Dick-Head have to force him to give them all a hard time? Didn’t they have it
rough enough without police involvement? It was with Dick-Head’s new directive
in mind that he set out down a particular alleyway toward a strangely dressed
man.
“Well, you’re a new one. Ain’t seen you ‘round here before.”
William lifted his head and winced from the pain radiating from the base of his
nose. While he did not recognize the uniform, the star on the man’s chest made
it obvious that he was a constable.
“Oh, thank the heavens! I seem to have landed in quite the unusual
situation.”
“Really, now?” William missed the officer’s humoring tone, mistaking it
for understanding.
The lost man struggled to his feet using the wall as a brace, and then
readjusted his spectacles and coat to appear presentable. “Quite. One minute
I’m in a London stable, and the next, I’m here, being shamelessly beat about
the face for my purse and completely at a loss for what has happened to me.”
Trent sighed at the terribly implausible story. He walked a bit closer to the
man and took a whiff. No sour tang of alcohol. His eyes weren’t dilated nor
constricted. He seemed to be your run-of-the-mill psych case. ‘At least I
don’t have to drag this one off to the pokey. The ER will get him some
help.’ Trent thought sullenly. “Come on, buddy.”
“My name is not Buddy. It is William. William Walthrop.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Walthrop.” Trent rolled his eyes,
then took the guy by the arm and led him into the back seat of the black and
white.
Once again, William missed the lack of sincerity in the constable’s voice, and
smiled. “Likewise, sir.”
When he turned his attention to where he was being led by the nice officer, he
caught his first glimpse at a twenty-first-century vehicle. William silently
gawked at the car, and passively allowed Trent to duck his head and lead him
into the contraption. “What manner of machine is this, kind sir?”
His only answer was a slamming of the door.
**************
The two girls in room 102 looked up at Buffy with guilty faces. She quickly
looked about the area. The bathroom was, of course, occupied. Day old pizza,
soda and other edible items dripped down the walls and the smell of cheap
perfume permeated the air. Why couldn’t they behave like she used to at their
age? Buffy smiled briefly knowing what baloney that was.
Quickly wiping the smile off her face, she confronted the errant teens with her
hands on her hips. If Dawn had been here to see the sight, she would have gasped
at the obvious resemblance to their mother. They had each seen this mother pose
numerous times throughout their youth. Once, the sisters had even traded
stories, trying to outdo one another on how severe a “Mom Pose” they had
each received. “What did you
do?” Buffy demanded.
The girls answering in unison, “Nothing.”
Just then, a pounding emanated from the coveted bathroom, along with a cry for
help.
“I see,” Buffy replied on her way to release the poor girls inside. However,
when she removed the duct tape from the door handle and opened it, only one girl
emerged.
“You guys are such jerks! I’m never talking to you again.” Ryan, near
tears, stomped out and threw herself onto the empty bed.
Buffy briefly stuck her head in the bathroom and saw no one else. “Where’s
Lydia?” Once again, the two troublemakers had been up to something, she could
just see it in their eyes. “I’m not playing with you two anymore. Where is
she?”
Ryan answered for her two roommates. “They left her tied up outside the
hotel.”
“What?!” That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. “Sara! Jan!
That’s it. You’re on probation from here on out. Just wait until Giles gets
his hands on you.” And with that,
she stomped out of the hotel room to find Lydia.
Sara and Jan breathed a sigh of relief to see the Nazi Slayer leave…but their
relief was a bit premature. Buffy, still wearing her angry face, tramped back
into the room, and without sparing them a single glance, promptly entered the
bathroom. The girls giggled at the tinkle sound, the nearly inaudible moan, and
then the flush of the toilet.
Buffy left just as angrily as she entered, determined to find the poor girl the
others had abandoned. About three quarters of the way there, a police car
stopped for a red light directly in front of her. Some morbid sense of curiosity
made her look in the back seat at the criminal. His curly head was turned away
from her, but she could definitely recognize this as the homeless guy from the
alley. She shrugged her shoulders at the coincidence and proceeded to find her
charge, Lydia.
From two blocks away, Buffy could see her. Unfortunately, she was not alone.
Three men surrounded her, firing off sexual taunts and…dear God, one of them
had a bloody knife. Slayer speed kicked in and Buffy met the assailants within
seconds. Despite their bulk and size, they were no match for her. She kicked one
off to the side while simultaneously shoving another into the wall. The third
smiled a toothy grin and wordlessly waved the butcher knife in her face. “You
know, one of these days they’re gonna expand my job description…” Buffy
disarmed him with a smart roundhouse. “…to include asshole humans like
you…” An effortless punch to the face sent him reeling backward. “…and
when that happens…” And the coup d’etat, a kick to the groin. The man fell
to the ground, mumbling expressions of pain. “…you’re all vampires to
me.”
Buffy rushed to Lydia’s side. Lydia’s arms and legs were tied with silk
scarves of luridly-colorful design that left no question as to whom they
belonged to. Buffy recalled seeing
these very scarves around Sara’s neck the first day she met the little
Slayer. A moment of sheer rage
passed through Buffy before she gathered herself and focused on Lydia. The girl was weeping so hard she could barely stand herself
upright. Buffy started to untie the leg restraints first, which is when she
noticed the pool of blood at Lydia’s feet. Buffy ran her eyes up the girl’s
shuddering body and stopped at the long and deep cut just over her left breast.
“Oh, God. We gotta get you to the hospital. Can you walk?”
Lydia weakly nodded her head but kept from making eye contact.
“Here.” The elder Slayer tore off a bit of her shirt and pressed it to the
laceration. “Hold pressure.” She then slung the girl’s arm over her
shoulder and half carried her to the nearest emergency room.
*************
When the horseless carriage stopped, William found himself in front of an impressive structure of brick and perfectly cut stone. More of the mind-boggling carriages sped around him, making him dizzy as he strained to follow each one with his wide eyes. Several people in baggy, mono-colored clothing scampered about. A woman with babe in arms ran into the building, crying out, “Help my baby!”
He turned to the constable. “What is this place?”
In answer, the officer exited the carriage and opened William’s door. Pointing to the large sign in red neon, he said, “Can’t read either, eh?” Officer Trent shook his head solemnly.
Having been otherwise occupied before, William just now noticed his spectacles. They were bent at the middle and the left lens was cracked. He repositioned the glasses to get a better view and read the sign slowly through the broken specs. “E-mer-gen-cy?” Suddenly all looked positive. “Yes! I am having an emergency! Pray tell, when did this fantastic place come about?! I do not recall having ever heard of such an establishment.” William looked at the constable with such sincere awe and hope that Trent could do nothing but lead the homeless man into the ER in silence. He himself had never experienced psychiatric problems, but his mother had and he knew full well how disturbed a person could get. Hopefully the poor man would find help here.
****************
“Name, please.” The disinterested nurse stared down at her paperwork, paying Buffy and Lydia no mind at all.
“Lydia.”
“You have a last name, or do you think you’re like Cher or Madonna?” It may have been in jest, but the nurse just came across as crabby.
“Um, Howard.”
“Birthdate.”
Buffy interrupted Lydia’s polite attempt at answering the question. “Listen,” Buffy leaned down to read the woman’s name badge, “Erika. This girl was attacked out there in the street and is bleeding. Are you gonna let us back into the ER, or am I gonna have to make a scene?”
The non-plussed Erika just smiled evilly. “You wanna go before the other 25 people here with worse complaints, be my guest. But you’ll have to explain it to them first.” Buffy followed the nurse’s pointing finger to the waiting room where dozens of miserable looking people sat awaiting medical care. Some held onto deformed limbs, while others held their bellies, moaning in pain. Buffy then turned to look back through triage and into the ER. There was a commotion in there with people running about and some woman screaming bloody murder. The halls were lined with patients on carts. It was then she resigned herself to following the system. “You gotta love old Sunnydale for one thing at least. They had a great emergency room.”
Erika gazed back down at her clipboard and continued in the same nonchalant manner. “Birthdate.”
*****************
It was moments before Buffy and her charge were shuffled back into the waiting area. They took the only two seats available and Buffy sighed. “I guess you just keep holding pressure and we’ll get in there sooner or later.”
Buffy briefly considered taking Lydia home and sewing her up with standard thread, but then thought better of it. She picked up a People magazine from the table in front of her and glanced at the date. February 13, 1998. ‘Great. A timely article on Kate Winslet,’ Buffy snarked to herself.
Before she could immerse herself in the article, a familiar head of floppy, brown hair walked into the ER under police custody. Buffy would recognize that tweed suit anywhere. It was that homeless guy again. ‘What are the chances?’ She craned her neck to try and catch a glimpse of his face, which she had yet to see, but the officer was blocking her view. Suddenly disinterested, she shrugged her shoulders and continued her reading on the Titanic actress.
*****************
”Name,
please.” Erika repeated in
monotone for the 50th time that night.
“Please,
Miss Erika. I do not know what
has happened to me. One minute I
was in a stable and the next, I found myself in a most disagreeable place with a
most disagreeable person attacking me! I
do not know where I am and Mother will surely be beside herself with worry
should I not return home within the next hour.
The sign out front says ‘Emergency’, and I certainly do have one.
Could you help me, please, kind lady?”
The
nurse slowly looked up from the chart and stared at William. “What medications did you stop taking, sir?”
“What?
Medications? Why, I am of perfect health and do not have any ailments
which require me to take medications. Why
do you ask?” He tilted his head
to the side in confusion. This
place certainly was strange.
“What
is your name?”
“William. William Walthrop. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” He bowed his head with respect, eliciting an eyebrow raise form the unimpressed nurse.
“So,
what is the date, William?”
“Assuming
it has not yet passed midnight, it is April the fourth in the year of our lord
1880.”
Without
blinking an eye, Erika picked up the phone.
“Is the psych room open yet? Great.
I got one for yah.” She no
sooner hung up than a large, burly man in the same baggy clothes as everyone
else grabbed William by the arm and led him into a starkly decorated room.
*****************
Lydia eyed the strange man in the triage area. “Hey! How come he gets to go in before us?”
“What?” Buffy looked up from her magazine. “Who?”
“That guy. The one the cop brought in. Maybe I should have said I thought it was 1880,” Lydia said.
“What? 1880? Who said that?”
Lydia sighed. “That guy in the three piece tweed suit. He looked and sounded like Giles’ relative or something. He told that bitch of a nurse that he thought it was 1880 and she let him right back.”
Buffy shrugged and went back to her article yet again.
Wait.
“1880? Really?” Buffy looked back up toward the triage area. That year sparked some sort of memory in her, but as she was unable to piece it together, she shrugged again. “What a nut.”
***************
Three hours. It had taken three hours for them to call Lydia. And, once inside, the service was none too quick. A “P.A.” saw them instead of a doctor and he seemed about as competent as Buffy would have been with a needle and thread. But eventually, the police report had been filed, the wound sutured up, and they awaited only discharge papers before they could finally leave.
“I’m gonna go see what’s taking so long. You wait here,” Buffy explained to Lydia.
The ER seemed a bit calmer than it had been four and a half hours ago. Some of the rooms were now empty with crumpled sheets and gowns lying on the gurneys. Yet, nurses still scampered about with little rolling machines and trays filled with blood tubes. Several people sat in the nurse’s station on the phone with charts in front of them. One conversation caught her attention and she eavesdropped with only a twinge of guilt. If they were being loud enough to overhear, she couldn’t very well help that, could she?
“He has no insurance or Public Aid, so…” The man in a striped shirt and ugly-as-sin tie stopped as he listened to the person on the other end of the phone. “Well, he denies a history of psychosis, but he firmly believes he lives in 19th century London.”
Ah. The homeless man. Buffy momentarily wondered why their paths kept crossing.
“Um,” the man looked down at his chart. “William Walthrop.”
‘William? 19th century?’ Something inside Buffy began to click. She feverishly turned around in an attempt to find the man in question, only to locate him right behind her in the room labeled “7”. It looked as if garage doors covered the three walls. There were no visitor chairs, no phone, no little table, and no blood pressure cuff on the wall. There he sat in the middle of a gurney with his head hanging down and resting in his hands.
Buffy did not know why, but she stared at the man as if she was meant to see him; meant to find him here in this bleak, depressing place; meant to…
“Miss? Excuse me. You can’t be here.”
She heard the telephone man’s voice behind her, but did not turn. At that, the homeless man raised his head and Buffy stumbled back at what she saw in his face.
“Spike?”
Chapter 3 (TBC)