Last Chance, a buffy: the vampire slayer fanfic

Last Chance

This story takes place after Season 4, Ep. 6 "Wild at Heart"

The neon sign had called him. The little, pulsating pink jerks that shivered inside of it, twisting and turning within their tube to spell out Last Chance Diner. The name was portentous, and likely true, appearing as it did along the flat, deserted backbone of Route 17 out of Sunnydale, California at twenty-five minutes until midnight. Gas stations had closed at the stroke of ten fifty-five, food and lodgings a good one hundred and five miles in the past, ignored as he sped past them, desired now as his fuel gauge dipped dangerously low.

'Come on, old girl,' he muttered, simultaneously gripping and caressing the steering wheel. 'Just get me into the parking lot. That's all I ask. Come on.'

Coughing out a phlegmatic cloud of exhaust, the battered, blue van he drove shivered in protest and exhaustion, but it managed to hold together long enough for him to guide it slowly, carefully into the swept, flattened dirt that doubled as the parking lot of the Last Chance Diner. He cut the engine and sagged back into the seat, patting the dashboard in loving gratefulness.

The diner was an oval shaped, chrome throwback to the past. The architect had apparently been unable to decide whether he wanted the Last Chance to be a rolling lunch wagon or an abandoned train car, and both designs competed for supremacy over the façade. Neither seemed to be winning, although the asymmetrical image they produced wasn't entirely unpleasant. Moonlight could always work miracles. The place probably looked like crap under the afternoon sunlight.

A man—he assumed he was the owner—lounged behind the counter, an old man with a deeply etched, leathery face and thick black eyebrows who didn't even glance his way as he walked in. Hung up behind the man and framed by two white and blue flags was a large, framed map of Greece, which silently proclaimed either the man or the architect or the diner itself Greek. A little string of bells attached to the door tinkled. A farmer—from the look of his chequered shirt and dusty jeans—turned a page in the newspaper he was reading. Tied to the side of a see-through refrigerator stocked with cakes and pies, an old radio rattled out a grainy Frank Sinatra.

Fly me to the moon, and let me play among the stars.

He pulled back a stool and allowed his neck to dip forward, the action pulling at his tense, tired muscles. He no longer had any idea how long he had been driving. The world had slowly mutated into slurred asphalt and green and blue and grey and red. His body shook from the steady 75 mph he lived in, his fingers and toes numb and tingling at once. It took him a couple of deep breaths to convince his head that the diner itself was not speeding along. It was still. Blessedly still and illuminated and populated and it did not run out of gas.

'Coffee,' he croaked, and then coughed to kick the croakiness out of his voice. 'With milk.'

A steaming cup was placed within his reach, silver spoon resting along the saucer rim, two packets of sugar tossed beside it, a tiny silver milk jug completing the ensemble. He ignored the sugar and poured the milk, stirring it with care. He wrapped his numbed hands around the cup and luxuriated in the warmth that crept along his fingertips. The first sip proved that the coffee was good, better than he had expected from the middle of nowhere along Route 17. He rolled the sharp, warm liquid around his tongue. It made the endless miles he had knocked back seem worth it.

Jesus, when was the last time I ate?

He looked up at the owner. The man had unfurled a newspaper of his own, a pencil poised over a crossword puzzle. 'Hey, could I trouble you for a piece of cake?'

'Knock yourself out.'

'Cheesecake.'

Each piece of the cake, when it arrived old and hard but serviceable, was treated with reverence, entering his mouth and held there as long as possible, dissolving away into what he hoped would translate into energy. Not that he needed all that much energy for tonight. The van was out of gas, and the stations wouldn't blink back to life until 6.00 AM, when the night would melt away into a foggy dream involving, oddly enough, Frank Sinatra, a chrome train wreck, and the moon.

The moon. Damn. Almost forgot.

He placed a quarter near the owner's elbow and helped himself to a newspaper. The Chronicle. It was always The Chronicle when it wasn't The Times or Weakly of wherever in California he was. Somewhere near Dade County, according to an ad for Darlene's Fresh Produce. He flipped through the pages quickly until he came to what he was looking for. The weather. The tides. The moon chart. He gazed down at the little progression of quarter, new, and full and then at the date on the paper. 19 September. Perfect full moon was due on the 21st, one full day before fall officially rolled in. Harvest Moon, was it? He heaved a deep, rattling sigh and folded the newspaper shut.

'Full moon,' he muttered.

'Goin' fishing, then?'

His head snapped up. It was rather an embarrassment for him to realize that the word that had accompanied the gesture had been a rather groggy 'Huh?'

Two bright green eyes, sunk into fleshy pockets of wrinkle, stared levelly at him. The newspaper-reading farmer. The old man nodded towards the folded newspaper and repeated his question. When the answer came in the form of an inarticulate gurgle, he shook his head and chuckled. He extended a thin hand criss-crossed with faint blue veins.

'Must be a young surfer rattling up to meet his parents. I'm Rob. Dade County born and bred, rattling off for my granddaughter's baptism tomorrow.'

'Daniel Osborne,' he replied, then frowned over the alien quality of the words. He could no longer really remember a time—now pattering off into the sentimental realm of Childhood Memories—when anyone had called him Daniel or Dan or even Danny. He certainly hadn't thought of himself as Daniel Osborne for years upon years upon the last few seconds. His nickname is what he was. 'Call me Oz.'

'Well, Oz, you won't find much fishing around these parts, full moon or no. Seems I should warn you.'

'Don't do much. Fishing, I mean.'

'Issat so?' Rob requested coffee, black, and a refill for this young Oz fellow. 'Then your interest in the moon is purely, what, poetic? Don't tell me you're one of them folks that goes around …' Rob pulled his lips down, his features contorting slightly as he mumbled over words he couldn't bring himself to say. He settled for not saying them, crossing himself instead. 'Well, doin' things the good Lord don't deem too proper.'

Oz had to smile. He couldn't help it. He took a quick, comfortable gulp of coffee and gazed evenly at Rob. 'No, nothing like that. I'm not Wicca.'

'Not what now?'

'Never mind.' He smiled as he said it, to set Rob at ease. The farmer's eyes were already beginning to slit into curious suspicion. Never a good thing. 'I'm just interested in the moon itself,' he murmured. 'Keenly interested.' Rob's eyes remained suspicious. Oz tossed out a word. 'Astrology.'

'Ah. I see. Science wiz, eh?' Rob blew on his steaming coffee and flicked his eyes towards the owner. 'You see that, Greg? These young people. Astrology. You reckon him for an astrologer when he came in?'

Greg's pencil hovered over the crossword puzzle, his gaze fixed on the long row of vertical clues. 'Nah. Looks like a punk.' The pencil flew over an empty set of boxes, connecting with two smaller, horizontal words. 'No offence meant, kid.'

'None taken.'

Earlier, as Oz had guided the van along the pasta primavera that was the intersection between your choice of continuing on Route 17 or hitting Route 880, he had taken a brief look at himself in the rear-view mirror. Several miles behind him lay Exit 32 and a Walgreen's Pharmacy, where he had purchased, for $3.95, a canister of cheap, Halloween hair colour. Bright green hair colour. Just for kicks. To lift his spirits. To co-ordinate with his wool fringed, kaki corduroy jacket. Seemed like a great idea at the time.

He had totally forgotten about it. Matte green waves of sticky hair raced beneath his fingertips, the motion eliciting a grunt from Greg and a gargled chuckle from Rob.

'Yeah. Of course,' Oz deadpanned. 'Every dedicated astrologist aims to look like at least one of the gases along the surface of Jupiter.'

'If you ask me,' Greg said, pencil tapping over vertical slot No. 4, eyes fixed on the puzzle. 'This astrologist is running from something. Looks desperate, don't he, Rob?'

If Rob answered, Oz didn't catch the words. His leftover dregs of coffee had suddenly become very interesting. Shinny puddles of murky brown mud. He slurped them up, held them in his mouth, wedged tight against his thoughts. His eyes flickered towards the folded newspaper. A clumsy job. He could see the moon chart peeking out from beneath the multitude of pages. The full moon icon seemed to hover, waving, winking.

Badder than old King Kong. Meaner than a junkyard dog.

His head snapped up. Fragments of Sinatra were melding into fragments of Rob's conversation, now fully directed at Greg.

'… is what they want. Direction. Sure. Kept at home too long with their parents and their sisters and their dogs and their work and study and do as your told, and they want to go free. Let me tell you, I was desperate once myself. Made it all the way to San Francisco in my own pap's Chevy before I realized I had no idea what I was doing. That's desperate.'

Oz's voice rang out. 'Uh, how much do I owe you?'

Greg tossed his two cups and cheesecake plate an once-over. 'Dollar fifty for the coffee, two for the cake. Rob pays for your refill. Don't you, Rob?'

'That I do. He'll need it.' Three dollars were slapped onto the counter, Rob's free hand slapping Oz's knee. 'Desperation can run pretty far on an empty stomach, son. But watcha gonna do once you realize you don't know what you're doing, eh?' He rumbled out a chuckle and stood up. 'Thank God for the small favours. Thank God.'

He shuffled towards the door and jiggled the bells with his foot. 'A good night to you, Greg. Oz. Get home safely.'

The door shut with the shiver of little bells and the onrush of cold night air, the sounds small and shrill under the pink neon light spilling in from outside. Oz placed three dollars on the counter. The full moon peeped at him once more from beneath the folded pages. Aching to break out.

'I'm not desperate yet,' he muttered.

* * * *

Gravel crunched under his boots, grains of sand and pebbles jumping up to strike against his pant legs and the front wheel of the van. It seemed to tower in the darkness, a prehistoric mammoth waiting to pounce. He slid into its chilled, darkened interior, his small frame—all of his five feet and four inches—curling into itself as he pulled his legs inside. He laid there, eyes closed, head resting against the tough, cracking leather of the seat for several heartbeats.

As a test, both of the van and of his questionable ability to survive by wits alone, he fired up the engine. The fuel gauge wouldn't rise beyond the little red rectangle that signalled impending death. Not dealing well with survival at all. He cut the engine and slumped back in thought.

The Last Chance Diner was indeed aptly named. A great, frightening expanse of nothing but wilderness stretched out in every direction. The moon, suspended in a throne of bright white clouds, threw everything into sharp contrast. The darkness behind the thickly cluttered vegetation stretched for miles, swirling within itself in a viscous, grey nothingness. An orchestra of crickets chirped back and forth, amplified by the stillness. A knotted patch of trees stood at attention to his left. He couldn't tell, from where he sat, how thick they truly were. Only one way to find out.

Flashlight gripped firmly in hand, he made his way towards the trees. The thick smell of wet earth and bark and sap and the smooth, cobweb coated leaves wrapped around him. The sharpness with which every gnarl, twist and chip in the trees came into view surprised even him. Worried him. It was beginning. It was too early to begin. He shone his flashlight straight ahead, determined to make use of its faint, eerie light instead of his own eyes. He knew, with a tremor, that if he switched off the flashlight, he would be able to see much more clearly than he could now.

Satisfied at length with the trustworthiness of the area, he made his way back to the van. With his legs propped up beneath his chin, he watched, waited, until Greg whipped down the counter, then disappear into the kitchen with Oz and Rob's used china. He emerged to straighten out the salt and pepper shakers and napkin dispenser set on the counter. Next he began to sweep the floor. Oz couldn't keep his eyes off the man. His brain blacked out for a while, but he was dimly aware of his head turning wherever Greg went. The old Greek straightened the stools, reached up to pull down the window shades. For a split second, Oz caught his eyes. Liquid brown. They looked away almost at one.

Minutes dripped along. Oz's eyes hurt from staring. But there, Greg was finally closing the door, flipping out the CLOSED sign. He crunched his way towards a little black box hidden behind a lonely, dried out azalea bush by the front. He flipped a switch and the pink neon sign flickered away into silence, a bright red ghost dancing over Oz's retinas. Greg squared his shoulders and made his way towards a little gold coloured Toyota Corolla. Oz gripped his knees, the dry, guilty taste of his voyeurism in his mouth. Greg seemed to spend an eternity starting up the Toyota. Oz's fingers had gone numb over the bones of his legs.

The Toyota backed out of its space with rapid ease. Oz held his breath. Greg was going to drive right past his van. He licked his lips and waited. Greg pulled up slowly. He lowered his window and leaned out. Oz never bothered to roll up his own windows. Greg's face was set. Oz had no doubts, at that moment, that this old man had once been a police officer. Copper. Chief Greg.

'Kid,' he said. 'Stay out of trouble.' Then, as an afterthought, 'are you going t'be okay?'

Oz leaned forward as far as he could. 'Yeah. Just gonna catch a few Zs here.'

Greg's face revealed nothing. He grunted deep in the back of his throat and rolled up his window. As he drove off, his last words chased themselves around Oz's head.

'Enjoy your moon gazing.'

Then there was silence. Complete silence. Oz felt himself suspended in it, held inert by the thundering noise of any little move he made. Several minutes had gone by before he heard himself exhale. He ran his hands through his green shag, smiling in spite of himself. 'Here we go,' he heard himself mutter.

The van door swung open with a rusty creak, his boots scattering pebbles as they hit the dirt floor. He had already placed the car in neutral. Now all he had to do was flex the muscles along his sore back and laugh silently at the things that always seemed to happen to him.

Here was the plan. The van had precious little gas. What little he had he needed in order to reach a gas station at six o'clock in the morning. He felt too exposed in the parking lot, too naked under the plumping moon. So he would push the van into the woods and hopefully catch at least a few hours of sleep. Easy. Not exactly brilliant, but adrenaline had already fired up his muscles.

He hooked his fingers along the open window and pushed. The van slid forward in slow motion. It wasn't entirely unpleasant. He could feel his back with an acute precision that bordered on revelation. He had bones that could pop and pull, muscles to spasm, veins to snap, organs underneath all of these outer layers, skin to tingle under the sweat produced by glands. He was almost to the trees. They were junipers. He could tell from the smell.

Wet, primal scents, roots and earth and decay, rose into his nostrils as he finally came to a stop somewhere in what he sensed was the heart of the small wood. He allowed himself a congratulatory aw right, mouthed in silence and with a fluid, jabbing hand gesture. Feeling pretty good, all things considered, he climbed into the van.

It wasn't until he had made his way to the back that he noticed he had clambered in on all fours. The thought sobered him. He sat on the carpeted floor and chewed at his lower lip, eyebrows knotted as he digested the emotion hammering alongside his heart. Guilt. Guilt-guilt guilt-guilt. He had enjoyed that, hadn't he? Jesus. Ok. How much good will it do to overanalyse that? He sighed. He frowned. He chuckled. All in rapid succession. All right, then, so it was nothing to worry about.

Still.

A pair of thick iron handcuffs on chains had been bolted to the back of the van. He knew this, had bolted them there himself. Dust scrapped against his fingertips, fine bits of sand, crusted bits of mud, as he crawled towards the tarp that covered them. He reached out towards them, heard a low, wounded growl. Surprised, he drew back. Found his lips had drawn back over his lips. His fingertips came against his canines as his hands rose to confirm this.

Did they feel sharper? He choked back a whimper. Overanalysing was still no good. He repeated this to himself over and over, murmuring it under his breath as he pressed his palms down hard, flat against the tarp. He didn't need them today.

Overhead, the moon dipped behind the clouds, only to reappear seconds later. Plump, bulging, it seemed to swell right before his eyes. It burned its way through the night sky, ridding across the clouds at high speeds while standing still, blurring into his cornea. He blinked, felt tears gathering against his lashes. He pressed his hands harder, flatter, against the tarp. The handcuffs bit back with cold urgency. Here we are. Here we are.

He didn't need them.

In the distance, a few miles, a car backfired. Greg's car. Oz's head snapped up. In one blinding, nauseating moment, he knew, he knew for certain, how long it would take him to gauge the distance. Fifteen minutes. If he started now. Nothing but the wilderness and the Last Chance Diner and the moon and Greg's car and him. Fifteen minutes, at best. On foot.

A snarl rose within him, a sickening intake of watery breath. With his lips pressed firmly together—teeth clamped shut—he peeled back the tarp and placed his palms over the handcuffs. One. Two. He found the key under a shaggy orange rug. Between the expanse of snapping them shut, snapping his jaws, bolting himself to the back of the van, the world seemed to revolve faster and faster. Within the stillness and the chaos, he could see the moon. Clear, bright, racing along the night sky. Swelling and swelling and swallowing him whole.

Author's Note

11 February, 2003. 1.16 PM. I sat down to write this story at the beginning of my third semester at St. John's University [where I hope to earn my Masters in Library Science, so that I may become one more Giles in this world], and I was pretty determined to finish it quickly and with few interruptions. Unfortunately, interruptions came and went ... so it took me an additional six months to complete it. What I wanted from this story [and likely didn't accomplish] was to deal with Oz's lycanthropy in as un-angsty a way as possible. Therefore, no mention of Willow, no horror stories, just the knowledge, in the back of his head, of what he is. I envisioned the story as something people unfamiliar with Buffy could read and understand. I hope I succeeded.