Five things that never happened in Sunnydale, by dutchbuffy2305
Rating: R
Spoilers: None (because, you know, these things did not happen…but refers to stuff up to season 4)
Author's note: The first part of these five things has been published before; two of the others only on my LJ
Author's website:
Feedback: Yes, please, to dutchbuffy2305@yahoo.co.uk
Sing me to sleep
Surviving roaches. Partying people. Clearly this was supposed to be the same Bronze as ever, but even their own version of fumigation hadn't managed to stop the invasion of the evil undead. Again. It made the dancing look frenetic and unreal, and the lights strobed at just the wrong frequency. Xander's neck hurt from not turning around to peek at Buffy and the vampire. He remembered the crunchy sound the roaches made under his sneakers and fantasized about crushing a roach-sized Angel.
"Willow? Can I look yet?" Xander asked. He knew he was being ridiculous, but clung doggedly to staring straight ahead into Willow's amused and resigned face.
"Yep. There is no kissage to be seen," Willow answered, a certain wistfulness in her voice. Xander wondered briefly if Willow maybe had a little crush on Angel, too. Why did girls always go for the really cool guys? What the heck was so special about tall, dark, handsome and well-dressed? He craned his neck to see what they were doing.
He watched as Buffy slowly wended her way to the exit of the Bronze, the lift of her head proclaiming that proud but sad, she'd made the righteous choice. The dark-blonde head moved towards the exit and disappeared from sight. His eyes were drawn back to Angel, who stared after Buffy as if he was seeing her for the last time. Angel's hand crept up to his neck as if something pained him and he rolled his broad shoulders in that oh so expensive coat of his. The vampire's usually still chest heaved in a deep sigh before he turned away and vanished, in that invisible way he had. Willow put her hand on Xander's arm, a commiserating look in her eyes, but he wasn't in the mood for best friends since playgroup. He started towards the exit himself, at first at a walk, then when he could he skipped and accelerated to a trot.
Once outside he swung his head frantically around, trying to discover which way Buffy had gone. On a hunch, he chose left. He kept half-running, half-walking, turning his head in all directions, a little afraid to raise his voice in this part of town. The only things he heard were his own footsteps and his lonely voice calling her. The streets became more narrow and badly lit. It wasn't a part of town where he and his friends would normally go, but since he'd been hanging out with Buffy he figured he could chance it. He was wise to the existence of demons and stuff, knew how to kill a vampire, and he could handle himself in a fight.
Xander stopped, startled, when he heard the sound of a drum being hit by something, falling over and going on rolling, ever slower, tha-dunk, tha-dunk-dunk. When the sound ceased the silence seemed even more ominous. From all sides pitch-dark walls were pressing in on him, making the space around him seem bigger and smaller at the same time. He listened for the thing – he was very sure it was a thing – that had turned over the drum. He wished Buffy was there.
"Buffy!" he hissed. "Where are you? Lemme walk you home!"
From the deep shadows, Angel's voice said calmly, "Right behind you, Xander."
Xander whipped around, expecting Buffy, and felt a whoosh of air and a heavy body barreling into his. Chill hands on his arms and a maw that went straight for his throat.
"Angel!" he squeaked, weak hands trying to push the awful face away from his neck, and then the weight was suddenly lifted and he could breathe again. Dust prickled his eyes and made him sneeze.
"Thanks," he said to the sky. It didn't answer back, but winked at him instead. After a moment, when no hand appeared to help him up, he scrambled to a more or less standing position himself. He peered into the darkness that clung to the alley walls like dirt, but he couldn't see a thing. The Sunnydale City Council wasn't spending a penny on street lighting in alleys, he thought resentfully. Playing right in to the demons hands. Of course, they conveniently believed there was no such thing.
"Angel?" he said, feeling foolish talking to the empty night.
A faint sighing rustle told him where to look and Angel's pale face floated towards him.
"Hey," he said, more creeped out than he wanted to be. Still a vampire, after all. Levitating and changing into bats for all he knew. Then the blackness dissolved into Angel's black coat and pants.
"Oh," Xander said foolishly, and heard himself give off a silly giggle. Damn. Not that he had any cool to lose, but still.
He waited for Angel to speak, but he heard only his own breath, wheezing in and out. There was no sound or movement from the vampire. Xander couldn't stand it anymore.
"I was just looking for Buffy," he explained. His heart was still thumping. His neck itched, and he realized there was a tiny trickle of blood running down below his ear. He felt around gingerly, but didn't feel great big puncture wounds like he was expecting, just a scratch and a little wetness.
Angel came closer. "If I'm here," he said reasonably, "Buffy went the other way."
Xander stared at him. There had to be a flaw in his reasoning. Buffy and Angel kissing, then Buffy and Angel going their separate ways? Not a match. Why was Angel standing so close? Made his neck hurt to look up at him.
A cool hand was laid on his neck and Xander shivered. The coolness was welcome; he was feeling overheated and headachy, what with all the running and the scaredness.
"Let me clean that up for you," Angel's voice said closer to his ear than it had any right to be.
Another hand was placed on his hip, and alarm bells went jangling off all over his body. Xander froze, unable to act in time to stop the slightly rough, cold tongue lapping at his neck. Goose bumps raced down his spine, curled down his tailbone and jumped to his cock.
"Hey!" he protested weakly, feeling his knees wobble and his hips gravitate far too close to the other guy, who was a guy, and a vampire, and so not gay!
Angel pressed Xander closer to his chest, so close that Xander's breathing shortened and he started to panic. He felt Angel's tongue worrying at the graze on his neck, and this was not the way he was planning to die! He was effortlessly lifted up, and further up. It made him uncomfortably aware of Angel's strength, and what he could do with it if he chose. He was standing on tiptoe now, almost lifted from the ground in Angel's attempt to get as close to his neck as he could, and the hard thing he felt poking him was not funny at all. If sexy. Very sexy. For a moment longer he hung limp, then something jumpstarted Xander back on line and he started to struggle and kick.
Talk, Xan-man, talk. He's stronger than you, struggling won't help.
"Wow, Angel," he said almost conversationally, hanging there like a kid against the bigger man's body, panting between every few words, "This'd make Buffy really happy. Funny, I never liked you, but I thought you had more self-control. I figured the soul would stop you from doing this."
"Perhaps I should do this instead?" Angel answered, still in that remote, tight voice.
He removed his hand from Xander's hip and placed it on his cock. It gave a lively twitch in response and Xander couldn't stop the groany yell he gave. Hanged corpses always had a hard-on, didn't they? Nobody would be able to tell in what state he had died, he hoped. Now that he was just hanging from one hand he figured he was gonna die from a broken neck long before he died from blood-loss. Although he hadn't felt any real bite, so probably it was still the minor wound Angel was licking. He couldn't get any air at all, now. Pressure on his carotid artery. Uh-oh, sing me to sleep.
There was a red place behind his eyelids he was going to, floating upside down, strangely enough. It was a relief, actually. He didn't want to try so hard anymore.
When Xander came to, he was neatly propped up against the rickety Harris mailbox. He had a crick in his neck, and his butt felt kinda cold, which worried him for a moment until he realized his heart was still beating. He checked his pants for come stains, then his neck for puncture wounds. Well. Totally wigged out, but mostly undamaged. Not bad for two vampires in one night. He wished he could tell Buffy what her boyfriend almost did to him. That would show the bastard! He turned the encounter around in his mind, but there was no way that he could tell her or anybody about this. Ever.
Tales of Brave Ulysses
The couple entered the diner. The man threw the door wide open for his companion, letting in a gust of hot, dry summer air. They looked around, debating on where to sit; the man with an arrogant stance that spelled trouble, the woman serenely awaiting his decision.
They were the kind of people who refuse to admit their youth is past, and dressed as if it was still the seventies. Old jeans and shrunken T-shirt for him, hot pants and Afghan jacket for her.
The waitress walked up to them and took their order. Beer and coffee. She considered it pretty early for beer, but didn't comment. When she brought their order, they were smoking. The sweet odor, and the way they were sharing the 'cigarette', made clear what kind of tobacco they were inhaling.
"We are a non-smoking state, sir," the waitress said carefully.
The man threw her a bored look, one eyebrow raised. "Sod off," he said, with a marked British accent, careless menace oozing from him. The waitress retreated hastily.
The woman giggled and shook her curly brown hair back with a youthful gesture. "Oh, Ripper," she said, "you are so cool. She looked like a scared chicken!"
"Sodding establishment hangers-on, that's what they all are. Catering to the rules of the oppressor state. I'm a free man, nobody tells me what to do." He emphasized his words by waving his roach in the air.
"That's so right," the woman said admiringly. "We're free spirits. Nobody tells us what to do!"
He leaned over the table and grabbed her neck, giving her a deep possessive kiss. "You're a bit of alright, you are, Joyce. You'll do as I tell you, won't you?"
His fingers trailed down her décolleté suggestively. "Mine…" he growled in her ear.
The woman Joyce blew an excited bubble of pink gum.
"You're my pretty girl. Always ready for a bit of a lark, ain't you?"
"That's because you think of these fun things to do, Ripper. I'm so glad we left that boring town. Nothing is worse than having to play grown-up to a teenage daughter. Faking responsibility is so hard… You opened my eyes and made me see I was made for freedom. Goodbye mortgage, goodbye geek-machine!"
Ripper listened to all this smilingly, a man who hears the tribute he's owed. His attention was drawn by the waitress, who was talking in the telephone in an urgent, low voice.
"Joyce, love," he said softly. "Go pee and flush this away."
"Sure, honey," she said, and flashed him a conspiratorial wink. She walked off, hips swinging, gum popping, and disappeared into the toilet.
The waitress stopped talking into the phone and threw Ripper a look. He looked back, unimpressed, and she tossed her head in a nervous little gesture and started fiddling with the coffee machine. The phone rang. With a sigh she went to answer it.
"Chuck's Diner, may I help you?"
"Who?"
"Um, yeah? You want to talk to him or do you wanna wait 'til she's out of the toilet?"
She approached him warily. "Mr. Ripper?"
"'Oo wants to know?"
"A young woman?"
"Oh, for God's sake!" He jumped up and his long legs carried him with speed to the phone.
"Now, look here, Buffy, will you fucking stop bothering Joyce all the time? It makes her feel guilty, and I don't like it. You and your little witch friend want to stop tracking us and making these bloody phone calls! She's a free woman and you should stop whining and get on with your life! Understood?"
He hung up. When Joyce got back form the toilet, giving Ripper an all-clear sign at hip-level, he'd paid up and was waiting for her by the door.
"Joyce, baby, time to leave this town behind us. There's lots of world we haven't seen yet!"
"Oh, Ripper!"
They got into an ancient Citroën and drove off.
Like a sister
"Buffy? A word?" Giles called out to her.
"Sure!" Buffy said and perkily hopped onto the library table. Giles sighed and pointedly removed a crumbling tome away from her leather pants.
"Don't look so disapproving," Buffy said airily. "It's my belief that my butt is the only thing that keeps that table nice and polished."
"Quite," Giles said, clearly in no mood for banter.
"Buffy, about Faith…"
"Faith? Why Faith? Why isn't this about me? We never talk about me anymore!"
Giles just looked at Buffy and she raised her hands and mimed zipping her lips.
"Faith and I had a talk," he began. "As you know, her Watcher is dead, her family members are in no position to fulfill a parental role. She's been living in a fleabag motel, on God knows what money, which is of course very undesirable for a young girl like that. Wesley has consented to talk to the Council about a stipend, and although they still aren't happy, and not very forthcoming, I have good hopes about some kind of allowance for her."
"Faith is getting an allowance? I want one too. It's not fair, we do the same work and…"
"Buffy," Giles silenced her. "I thought of offering her my spare bedroom, but it wouldn't be suitable to have a young woman staying with me."
He looked at Buffy piercingly. Buffy stared back for a few seconds, nonplused, until she realized what was expected of her.
"No! No way, Giles. You can't expect me to ask her to live with us? I mean, Faith? Are you insane? My mother would have a fit!"
Giles coughed. "In fact, Joyce quite agrees with my concerns over Faith's present living conditions, and has already offered to clear out the spare room."
Buffy felt devastated by this betrayal. "What's gotten into everyone? Has Faith bewitched you too? Doesn't anybody think about me anymore? How I would feel about your little plan?"
She jumped up and grabbed her bag. Tears gathered in her eyes and she blinked hard to prevent them dripping down her cheeks.
Giles voice sounded very gentle, halting her in mid-flight. "Buffy, please don't act hastily. Think it over. Talk to your mother about it. I know you'll do the right thing."
Buffy marched home, seething with anger. Trust her to make the right choice, all right. How could Giles choose Faith over her, and pretend he was being fair-minded and fatherly? Emotional blackmail, that's what it was, totally identical to Joyce's brand, and she just knew they must have thought up this evil scheme together
It was just silly that Faith couldn't stay with Giles. Nobody would think anything of it. As if men Giles's age would look twice at a schoolgirl like Faith. Well, maybe not exactly your average schoolgirl type, but still.
"Buffy?" Joyce called out when she came in., "Did you have your talk with Mr. Giles?"
"Yes, I did, and the answer is no. Mom, how could you?" Buffy burst out. "Isn't this my house too? I don't want Faith here. She's taking everything that's mine! My job, my friends, my Watcher, and now my home and my Mom too? Why don't you let her have her pick of my wardrobe while you're at it?"
Joyce sighed. "It's a pity you were an only child, Buffy. Sharing is important, and even more so when the other person has so little. Faith has nothing and no one. Shouldn't we at least offer her hospitality and safety?"
Buffy hung her head. "I know you'll pressure me into it, but I still hate it. And I hate you both for conspiring behind my back!"
She slowly went up the stairs and threw herself down on the bed. She stomped her pillows into shape and tried to relax. It was no use. How did moms do that? Play on your emotions so skillfully that you just had to give in? She got up and went to the storage room.
Hours later, Joyce found her enveloped in cobwebs and dusty clouds, almost invisible behind an enormous teetering stack of boxes she'd cleared to one side. Buffy gestured to the dingy white walls.
"What color would Faith like on these walls, Mom? I'm thinking purple."
Tea with butter
The traveler blew warm air into her double-mittened hands, the layers of fleece and yak-fur still not enough to keep them completely warm. She paused a moment to take stock of her surroundings. The mountains were crouching next to the path, blocking out the dark grey sky with their bulky black shoulders. She'd left the hostel before sunrise, to be able to visit the monastery just after the dawn ritual.
The narrow, rocky trail made doubled endlessly back on itself while she trudged on, until finally the sun cleared the top of the mountain and suffused the grayish stone of the monastery ahead of her with rose. The sky turned from dark blue to an only marginally lighter shade of intense azure. The traveler threw back her hood, although the temperature had by no means risen above freezing yet, despite the power of the sun at this height. Her shining auburn hair glinted in the morning sunshine.
The last steep incline was traversed not by a path but by stairs, painstakingly hand laid pebble by white pebble. It ended on a narrow stone terrace that was in the shadow of the building itself and therefore very cold. She shivered and hastily walked to the shelter of the big carved doorway. She banged on the door three times, feeling how warm the wood was compared to the bleak stone all around, and getting a splinter in her finger as reward.
"Ouch!"
She hastily removed her finger from her mouth when the door swung open soundlessly, and a tiny old man with a face like a walnut stared at her.
She bowed and requested something in halting but serviceable Tibetan. The doorkeeper replied and motioned her to follow. They traversed a long hallway and entered a huge hall facing the morning sun, roofed, but open on all sides to the freezing air.
It seemed to the redheaded girl that she saw hundreds of shaven heads and bony shoulders, all belonging to the monks that sat kneeling and murmuring some kind of prayer or mantra. For a moment, she was lost in the sea of apricot robes and pink soles of feet, but then she strode in purposefully and waded to the one shaven head that was white instead of brown.
"Daniel Osborne!" she said sternly and crossed her arms.
The pink monk slid of his heels and had to support himself on his left hand. His absurdly big and bulbous head turned and his pale eyes gaped at the girl.
"You think you could just decide on your own to leave me? No way, mister. That is a decision two people should make together, and I'm here now so we'll make a decision like two grownups, or adults as I really meant to say and…"
The monk, now revealed as a short skinny Caucasian male with ginger eyebrows, put his fingers gently on the girl's lips, silencing her flow of words.
"Willow."
"Oz. Are you glad to see me? Well, I'll show you glad!" She slapped his cheek. "That's for skedaddling off to nowhere like that."
Oz nodded thoughtfully. "That's fair."
"I learnt Tibetan. I changed majors. And did you know how long I had to sit in trains that went so slow the goats and the village children could outrun it?"
"Outran a few myself. Breakfast?"
"Oh God yes," Willow said fervently. "I need a fuller stomach than this kind of hollow echoey one, the kind where it seems to be sucking in your belly for you, you know, for the serious relationship talk we're going to have. Although if you offer me that horrible green tea with yak butter I'll probably decline, except if it's the only warm thing in the building."
For where you go, I will go
"Here it is, Cordy," Xander said.
She looked at her brand new daffodil-yellow Jimmy Choos with a grimace and stepped gingerly on the un-mown grass toward the stone. Her spring coat matched the shoes exactly. "I can't believe you talked me into going. I mean, it's been twenty years, time to let go already, okay?"
Xander shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "There's never a good reason to forget your best friend, even after all this time."
He brushed away at the dirt on the stone. "Willow Ruth Rosenberg", 1981-1998, Beloved daughter and friend. May she have peace," it read. "Wherever you are, Will," he added softly, "I hope you're still you. That you still wear fuzzy sweaters."
"Oh, come on, Xander, how likely is that? We know the difference between Angel and Angelus, and I'm betting Willow is so not wearing fuzzy sweaters anymore. She's wearing skanky black leather and killing three people every night just for fun. If she didn't get dusted by some Slayer, that is."
Xander sighed. She didn't understand. "That's what you think, Cordy. I prefer to think of Willow as a geeky kind of vampire."
"Did you ever ask Buffy? She saw Willow when she and Spike went to get the ring of Amara!"
"No."
"Why not? Didn't you want to know for sure?" Cordelia was gesturing by now, getting worked up.
"No. I prefer my own version. Just like I think Spike takes good care of her."
Cordelia laughed. "Oh, and why would he do that? Out of the goodness of his heart?"
"He must have turned her for a reason. He probably thought she was cute!" Xander said defensively. He'd always wondered about the love potion stuff they'd found in the empty Chem lab. Secretly he was sure Willow had been planning something involving him, and the guilt had driven him crazy the first month or so.
"Sure. Willow. Cute. Can we go now?"
"No, I always do Buffy and Joyce and Oz as well. Come, it's only a short walk."
It was only a few hundred yards to Restfield Cemetery. Xander offered Cordy his arm because of the uneven footing and she took it gracefully. Furtively he felt in his coat pocket for his little stash, but it was empty.
"Oh, Xander. You thought I wouldn't find those Ho-hos?"
"You checked my pockets?"
"Duh! Anyway, the prenuptial states it clearly: I get to monitor your calorie-intake, and Ho-hos are never good."
Xander sighed. Thank God his secretary kept him in chocolate. Not that he wasn't grateful Cordy kept his weight in check; he would have been as fat as his dad by now, or worse.
"Here's Buffy," he said softly, and wiped away a sentimental tear.
"Buffy Anne Summers, 1981 – 2000. Beloved daughter, best friend.", and next to that, Joyce's stone.
Cordelia sighed. "What killed Buffy again?"
"Adam. Cyborg. The government had to bomb Sunnydale to destroy him and his demon army. We were all evacuated by then. Never found her body."
"Poor Joyce. To lose a daughter, and then to die alone, like that."
Xander clenched his teeth. "I visited her every month, okay? I had a business to build up. It's not my fault nobody found her for a week."
Cordelia patted his arm. "Of course it's not your fault. Without all that hard work the business wouldn't be what it is, Mr. President of your own company."
"Mrs. Vice President Sales and Personnel."
They smiled at each other, satisfied with their life.
"Okay, that just leaves Oz."
"Oh, please, Xander, my feet are killing me. These shoes are not for walking."
"All right then. After all, he was killing people when Buffy had to kill him."
"Out of grief over Willow?"
"That's what we always thought, yeah."
They walked back to their limo in silence, enjoying the spring sunshine.
"Cordy? How about a nice holiday to England?"
Cordelia rolled her eyes, which were still looking damned good. "Let me guess. Purely by coincidence, we will happen to pass by the cemetery where Giles is buried. Am I right? Jeez, Xander, he didn't even keep in contact with you! You are getting so morbid in middle age. What is it with you and dead people?"
FINIS