Mr. Pointy and the Meeting of Opposites
Disclaimer: This is a work of Fan Fiction. I neither claim nor own anything relating to the Buffy: The Vampire Slayer, nor Twilight franchises.
Description: Buffy The Vampire Slayer meets Vampire Isabella Marie Cullen née Swan in Purgatory. Fortunately, they are able to resolve their differences with the help of their mediator, one Mr. Pointy.
Buffy tapped the steel toe of her boot against the linoleum floor, absently letting the smooth wood of Mr. Pointy the Stake flip repeatedly over the back of her hand and into her palm. She sighed, slumping more forcefully into the seat of her hard-backed chair. Boredom threatened, as it had for the last few hours (or had it been days? Weeks? She couldn't tell.), hazel eyes half-lidded as she stared blankly into space. The waiting room wasn't all that bad, even if the floor was a dull off white and the walls wavered disconcertingly between a pale aquamarine and a soothing turquoise. There were even magazines on the oak coffee table, her favorites too, but a girl could only find out the name of her one true love so many times before giving into temptation and defacing the fabulously beautiful women staring out at her from the glossy pages. Personally, Buffy thought the horns and zombie-fied teeth were an improvement.
Of the two doors in this room, only one had been opened during her stay; the one she herself stepped through the day she'd died. Again. Buffy propped her feet up on the chair opposite with a huff, letting her head thud against the wall behind her. How long were they going to make her wait?
She was just on the verge of unconsciousness, arms plopped comfortably on her stomach, Mr. Pointy firmly in hand, when something thumped against the far door, rattling it in place. The blond sat up slowly, stare unblinking.
"No!" A muffled scream.
Then the door on the far side of the room (Her Door, as she liked to call it) burst open, a pale, dark-haired girl stumbling through with the grace of the dead. The newly risen dead that is.
The wailing and gnashing of teeth was about right, too.
"This isn't right!" The girl gasped from her place on the floor, thin arms wavering as she tried to lift herself. Sound and color; warmth and life, streamed through the opening behind her, nearly blinding in their intensity.
The girl twisted like a wild thing, reaching out.
"Wait!"
The door slammed shut.
Her sobs were a bit loud in the silence that followed.
Oddly enough, Buffy couldn't remember it being that dramatic when she'd come through. Huh, who'd a thunk.
Mr. Pointy started spinning again.
"I don't belong here." Mop-head shuddered into her hands, curled onto her knees and slopping up the squeaky clean linoleum.
"So…" Buffy ventured after a few moments of unbearable snuffling. Man she was rusty. The girl's head shot up, a gasp seizing up her throat, brown eyes wide.
Buffy grinned. "What are you in for?"
Like a deer- no, bunny, definitely a bunny- like a bunny in the head lights, Miss Mop stared, mouth gaping. Was that blood trickling out? Interesting.
Buffy grinned harder, eyes squinting. She gestured at the chairs across from her. "Have seat, honey-buns."
Slowly, Miss Mop stood, shuffling closer with stiff movements that revealed a horrible gash across her lower abdomen, the skin flapping downwards with each step. Buffy's nose wrinkled. Oh, that's nasty. Missy saw the expression, followed the line of sight, and promptly vomited.
After much scrambling, awkward consoling, and the discovery that, no, it did not hurt, and oh my God it's healing before my eyes, our entrapped heroes sat down.
Miss Mop hunched in her seat, holding the rapidly sealing flap with her arm, and bit her lip with increasingly sharp teeth. Buffy, ever tactful, ignored the acidic smell of vomit embedding itself into her white wife-beater and crossed her legs at the ankles, the leather of her red pants shifting with the movement. She stared at the girl across from her instead, flipping Mr. Pointy.
Miss Mop's brows furrowed in thought, the red of her eyes and slimy, dripping nose not the prettiest of pictures. Then, abruptly:
"I think I died."
Buffy nodded sagely. "Bummer."
A companionable silence ensued.
"I was having a baby."
Buffy didn't say anything and fidgeted in an aborted motion. The girl didn't notice.
"Edward." Miss Mop whispered, head sinking once again into her hands. Buffy, for her part, was distracted by Missy's hair. When did it get so silky?
"Boyfriend, huh?" The blond said musingly, tugging at her own short locks.
Buffy took the despondent moan as encouragement. "You know, I had a boyfriend once."
"It's not the same." The girl sobbed. She was dutifully ignored.
"Yeah. He was older than me, sinfully beautiful and crazy strong. He had the whole 'tall, dark, and handsome' thing down pat." Buffy waved a wrist, wistful tone darkening. "Then one moment of happiness and poof, dude's trying to kill your friends, take over the town, and throw you into Hell."
Miss Mop was staring again, white dress stitching itself back together. If Buffy didn't know any better, she'd say someone had gone after the younger girl with a stick of shimmery costume make up.
Buffy's glare dropped. "No? That never happen to you?"
The not-so-mop-head sighed. "It's gonna sound crazy."
"Girl, please."
Much gesturing and detailed swooning later, and all Buffy had to say was: "So Eddie boy got you preggers, ripped the baby out, and stabbed you in the heart while you were still in cardiac arrest."
"Yes."
"And I thought my love life was bad."
"I love him!"
"Uh huh."
Buffy avoided the Glare of Death™ by pulling her red leather jacket from over the back of her chair and rifling through the pockets. Nope, still empty.
"What's your name anyway? Cuz I've been calling you Mop in my head, but…" She shrugged with one shoulder, other arm occupied as she slipped the jacket on.
"…Bella." Came the terse reply.
Oh ho! Someone's a bit snappy for one of the only recently dead! Buffy hummed thoughtfully, tugging her bottom lip with a finger. "Bella…Isabella? Izzie! Nice to meet ya, chica." She stood, waving enthusiastically as she made her way around the room.
Bella had stopped hugging herself, the pristine white fabric of her dress falling over her strangely attractive form like water. Her movements were fluid, graceful as she leaned forward with an elegantly raised brow. Buffy kinda hated her for it.
"So?"
The blond blinked, playing coy. "So what?"
The teen (she was a teen wasn't she? She couldn't be any older than twenty) rolled her eyes, amber glinting in the stark light of the waiting room.
"Your name, stupid."
"Oh. That." Buffy glanced over her shoulder from where she was inspecting Door # 1, hands sliding along its surface for its ever illusive knob. Her smile was sharp, her piercing eyes, wicked.
"I'm Buffy, The Vampire Slayer."
The gulp was audible, even across the room. Metal skidded against plastic tile. Buffy ignored both, even as a cool hand came to rest against her throat.
"What is this?" Came the hissing snarl.
Mr. Pointy answered first, pricking at a smooth neck, and, surprisingly, drawing blood. A moment passed, and Buffy shoved Bella away.
"Sweet cheeks, this is purgatory." She waved at the room, dropping into a mocking bow. Then she snorted. "The only way out is down."
"Not up?" Bella questioned from where she had landed, once again kneeling on the cold floor. Amber eyes were keen now, guarded, untrusting. Buffy waved her off, dipping to check the bottom of the door. "Look, I've been there, done that. If we were going to go to Heaven, then we'd already be there."
A moment passed before Bella seemed to realize something. "Vampire Slayer?" She extended, confusion coloring her tone. Buffy clicked her tongue at the unresponsive door, nodding. "Formally of the 'THE' variety. But, after all the twerps started popping out of the woodwork, I figured I'd just leave things to Faith."
Bella shook her fair little head, muttering about madness and needing to get out of here.
Another snort. "Well, yeah. That's the idea."Buffy winked, crossing over to Door # 2. She started inspecting it, palms flat, eyes narrowed, and Mr. Pointy tucked safely into the belt loop at the base of her spine. Bella relaxed, just a smidgen.
"So from what I figure, we've got two options." The blond began. "A: We wake up in our bodies and this will have all been a terribly boring dream, or" One finger went up. "B: We wind up in Hell. And again, been there, done that. You can guess which one we want, eh?" If she had gum, she'd be popping it. Typical cheerleader.
Bella shifted on the balls of her feet, watching Buffy's hand raise to knock, her head tilting to listen. Bella could see the thin, white scars that lined the skin of each knuckle, hear the drum of the wood like thunder. She flinched, face twisting in pain. Buffy huffed, exasperated, and promptly collapsed into the nearest seat.
"Now I've been here for-" she mimes counting "-a long time, and the only thing different is, well, you." The blond waves in the younger girls direction, then leans up in a stretch, hands behind her back. "So here's the catch, baby face: Live to die. Or die to live."
Bella can feel a headache blooming. "I don't understand. Aren't they the same thing?"
The older woman sighs, elbows resting on her knees. A thin, yellow brow cocks. "You really haven't been in the business long, have you?"
Bella hates that look. She'd worked so hard for people, especially the Cullen's, especially Edward, to stop looking at her like that. She wasn't naive. She wasn't stupid.
Bella lifted her chin. "I want to live."
Buffy's lips quirked. "Oh, good. I'd thought I'd be here forever."
Then Mr. Pointy is partaking in the time honored craft of his ancestors, flying home in place of an unbeating heart.
In a house in the woods of forever gloomy and rainy Washington, one Isabella Marie Cullen née Swan takes an unnecessary first breath. Seconds later, the doorbell rings, an unexpected, unheard and perhaps unwanted guest waiting in the wings.
Mr. Pointy spins absently, content.