A/N I have a weakness for the Smartest Asshole in the Room, particularly if he is morally ambiguous and looks good in a suit. Or, as might be the case, without a shirt. This is a rewrite of a very old fic, started way back in the hiatus after S3. I am not a fan of either Creepy Superwaifs or Possession, however delightfully unhinged, so it's AU.
Once Upon a Time...
This is how all such stories start. Night time in the city, a cold night, the wind biting a little, whispering along the streets, dancing with the shadows. A hospital, as quiet as such a place can ever be. A corridor, a room. A man asleep in a bed. He is tall and handsome, but then, a prince in a fairytale should be.
A prince in a fairytale should also have a fairy godmother. For this prince, the bastard son of a witch, things are murkier. Fairies have little to do with it, and gods, even less.
Nobody seemed to entirely notice the little old lady wandering through the building, any who did thought she was another cleaner, with her bucket and broom. She pads along, comfortable shoes and shapeless clothing, passes by eyes and minds without lingering, leaving nothing but a slight chill in her wake, a few uneasy dreams. One patient dreams of a blazing skull, another of a little doll that speaks to her in her mother's voice. The young patrolman dozing in his chair outside the room finds himself running across vast snows, stark shadow and moonglow, and whether he is the pursued or one of the wolves pursuing, he cannot say. He dare not look up to see what else follows behind, sweeping through the skies.
Now, the old woman stands by the sleeping man, and looks thoughtful. He is grown now, the hard face stern even in sleep, but she remembers him as a child, curious even in his fear, already hunted, but not easy prey, even then. She draws a nail down his arm, and a line of blood follows, sluggish and darker than might be expected. She sniffs, tastes, spits. Tuts a little.
"Well, you don't belong here, do you?" she says, in a language ancient when the Slavs moved eastwards, and one bony hand pecks forward, comes back with a wisp of black smoke that struggles in her grasp. She pops it into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. A certain savour, blood and blades and a snatch of song in the fog...
So. Not a bad effort, but it had allowed that delicious little morsel of evil to sneak back through the gateway. And the boy – well, he's a mess. Humans are easy, take a soul out, stuff a soul back in. They walk in one world only. The beast-kind are more tricky, but still move between the two worlds, can be drawn back across. He is truly stuck between, part of both, belonging to neither. Half-natured, and now run through with poison. A pure heart, indeed. Hollowing him out gradually until there would be nothing but an insatiable need to fill that void, with rage or ambition or lust. It's a nasty thing, vengeance and passion curdled together, and she'd almost admire the artistry of it. But it does complicate things. This will take something as old and powerful as she is. Still, it has been a while since she had a challenge. And she is fond of him, in her way.
She tilts her head and listens. Heels tapping along a corridor, slowing a little, then continuing, measured and wary.
The woman who opens the door is slender, well-dressed, her fine-boned face beautiful and cold with fury, her eyes shining ice-blue.
The old lady simply flicks a hand as if dismissing a cobweb, ignores the gasp of shock.
"Psssh. In. Sit. We have things to discuss."
"Yes, Bab...(A raised eyebrow, pursed lips) Grandmère."
She sits in the chair with little of her usual grace, suddenly young and frightened again. The look she gets is not unkind.
"You brought him back from my realm, child, did you really think there would not be a reckoning? It will hold a while, but - you gave him life once, you cannot give it again."
"What must I do?" Who must I kill? remains unvoiced, but hangs between them.
The oldest magic is bone deep and blood dark, grave dirt and flame. Baba Yaga smiles.