Fic: Scorned 2/8

[dragonyphoenix]

Title: Scorned
Series: Lotus in Muddy Water
Fandom: BtVS
Characters/Pairing: Faith, Wesley
Rating: PG-13
Concrit: Please, in comments
Disclaimer: They aren't mine, not yet, but the will be once I've taken over the world. Bwah-ha-ha.
Summary: As she pinned the comb in her hair, whiteness snaked out from the comb, bleaching her hair. She screamed, arching forward as she fell into the sea. Twisting under the waves, she writhed under the water, as if scrabbling for escape. Her hand reached upward but was unable to break through the surface. With a final grimace, she relaxed into the sea's cold embrace. As her feet touched down to the bottom, white locks drifted in the current. The moon drifted across the horizon and was close to setting before she moved again. Her eyes opened and looked up from below the sea.
Notes: Many thanks to my most awesome betas: deird1, for making sure Wesley and Aidan didn't do anything totally unBritish; and  diebirchen who had the agonizing job of checking my grammar and telling me when what I wrote just didn't make sense - she put in a lot of work, which I very much appreciate.
Notes: The gag with the spilt milk in the kitchen is from the original Pink Panther movie (Peter Sellers version).
Notes: Petra Hyde Burnand was Faith's previous Watcher, the one killed by Kakistos.
 

* * *

Pulling the covers off himself neatly, Wesley sat up in the bed. He couldn't sleep. The conversation with Mr. Taylor hadn't gone well, and he kept reviewing it, hoping to work out how he could have handled the man better. The curt reminder that Mr. Taylor was no longer a member of the Council, and therefore couldn't give a fig what Quentin Travers would think, had been decidedly unfair. He certainly hadn't meant it that way, and the suggestion that he should learn to stand on his own two feet had been undeserved.

Standing, Wesley put on a robe to cover his bedclothes. He looked down at his socked feet. Inexplicably, he'd lost one slipper in the move. “I suppose socks will have to do,” he sighed, hoping it wouldn't be terribly inappropriate.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, the dining room was dark, but there seemed to be a light coming from the kitchen. He felt like creeping back up the stairs, afraid of another confrontation with Mr. Taylor, but then he recalled Dr. Urquhart's lectures from his first Council class. “A Watcher must be prepared for anything.” Wesley raised himself up taller and, with a shake of his head, prepared to enter the lion's den. A pair of high-pitched giggles emerged from the room, and Wesley took a step back before peering around the entryway into the dining room. Since he couldn't see into the kitchen, it wasn't a particularly useful move.

The scent of popcorn wafting through the air, reminded him of his school days. Well, young ladies couldn't be all that different from the lads, now could they? When he walked into the kitchen, Grace stood at the stove, shaking some sort of pan that was inexplicably covered in tinfoil, which was expanding upwards into a sphere. Claire, sitting on top of the counter that formed an island in the middle of the kitchen, was flipping a knife back and forth, from hidden under her wrist to an attack position. “Oh, my,” Wesley heard himself saying.

Grace turned her head but kept shaking the pan, while Claire sheathed the knife and jumped off the counter. “Mr. Wyndam-Pryce?” she asked.

“Your knife work is amazing,” he said. “I'm afraid I always manage to cut myself when I try to work with knives.”

Claire smiled and hung her head as if embarrassed. “Thanks. Most people think I'm a bit strange, with the weapon training and all.”

“Oh, I know exactly what you mean,” Wesley replied. “Outside of the Watcher fami– well, a lot of, um, outsiders tended to think I was strange, when I was younger that is.” In an attempt to distract the girls from his slip of the tongue regarding Watchers, he asked, “How long have you been training?”

“For the past five years,” Claire said. “My parents thought that Uncle Aidan needed something to keep his mind off Aunt Abby after she passed away. Somehow I was volunteered, and I've been training here every summer since.”

Wesley thought back to Brigit's comment that this girl was being trained in demonology. His lips tightened into a grim line. “Ah yes. Training.”

As Grace started pouring out the popcorn from a tear she'd made in the tin foil, Claire went on. “The knife is nice, of course, but what I really love are swords. Have you trained with a sword?”

“Well, yes, but I–“ Wesley started to say, before he was interrupted by Grace, spelling out the word kissing in a sing-song chant. He wasn't certain what she meant but began to feel uncomfortable.

“So, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce,” Grace said. “What's your first name?”

“Well, um, Wesley.”

“Can we call you that 'cause Wyndam-Pryce? That's a mouthful.”

“Grace,” Claire warned.

“What?” Grace said, shaking her head at Claire. Turning back to Wesley, she asked, “Would you like to watch a movie with us? It's Beverly Hills Ninja.”

“Um, no thank you. I was hoping for some warm milk. If there is any – milk, that is,” he said, looking around the kitchen helplessly.

“Pots and pans are over here,” Claire said, reaching into a cupboard next to the stove and pulling out a small pot, “and mugs are over there. The milk is in the fridge.” She pointed to the refrigerator as if Wesley wouldn't be able to find it on his own and then blushed when she realized what she'd done.

While Wesley poured milk into a mug, the girls grabbed so much junk food to take with them that he was certain they were going to make themselves ill.

“Not so tall, but definitely dark, and not too ugly, if you like geeks,” Grace whispered to Claire, but loudly enough that Wesley could hear. He blushed, and then hoped that neither of them had noticed. They couldn't be talking about him, could they? Certainly not, they were much too young.

“Grace, I swear I'll–“ The rest of Claire's whispers faded into the distance.

As Wesley leaned forward to peer through the doorway, following the girls with his eyes, his hand, holding the mug of milk, tilted forward with his body, until he noticed he was spilling the milk on the floor. He scanned the area, looking for something to mop it up. Not finding anything, he dabbed the toe of his sock towards the spill, as if that might sop it up.

Keeping an eye on the spilled milk, Wesley backed up until he was standing against the counter. My Slayer thinks I'm useless, he thought. Calling in Mr. Taylor, who hasn't been associated with the Council in over a decade! I've made a terrible start with him; his secretary thinks nothing of mocking me, and those girls . . . He didn't know what the girls thought of him, but he was certain it wasn't complimentary.

I'd better get this cleaned up before anyone else comes along to make fun of me. As he looked around again for a mop, he saw Brigit standing in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen. Too late, he thought. Wrapping himself in as much dignity as he could, Wesley said, “I'm afraid there's been a bit of a spill, but I can't seem to find a mop.”

Instead of mocking him as he'd expected, Brigit came round the counter. Looking down at the spill, she said, “Oh, that won't need a mop. A couple of rags will do.” Opening a drawer, she pulled out two tea towels.

When Brigit knelt down to clean the spill, Wesley knelt as well, almost knocking her on the head. “No, it was my mistake. I should clean it up.”

Handing him the towels, she said, “I'll get your milk started.” When he just gawked at her, she added, “You did want it warmed up, didn't you?”

“How did you know?”

She held up his mug. “I guessed that if you wanted it cold, you'd drink it from a glass.”

While Wesley wiped up the spill, she started warming up the milk. When he was finished, Wesley stood, two damp towels in his hand, and looked around the kitchen until Brigit said, “There's a laundry chute just past the pantry.”

When he turned back towards the main part of the kitchen, Brigit asked, “Would you like your milk spiced up? We have cinnamon, nutmeg, allspice, and actually a host of others if you'd like something exotic.”

“Oh, nutmeg, please,” Wesley said with a small, hopeful smile.

“Here you go,” she said, grabbing into a small cupboard and tossing a jar over. Wesley juggled the jar for a few moments with a look of pure terror on his face, until he had it stable in his hands. “Sorry,” Brigit said, looking abashed. “I wasn't thinking how exhausted you must be.” After Wesley muttered something polite, she said, “Aidan likes a ship-shape house. I can stick around and wash the pot after you're done with it, if you'd like to get back to bed right away.”

Wesley relaxed a bit. Perhaps the whole world wasn't allied against him. “Ah, no thank you,” he said. “I'm rather a stickler for cleanliness myself.”

“Good night, then.”

* * *

As he pissed into the reeds, Luke took care, even in his buzzed state, to keep his sneakers, a new pair of black Reeboks, out of the stream. Zipping up his jeans, which were worn just enough to be perfectly comfortable, he shouted out to the crowd back by the bonfire, “Gotta lay off the beer.”

“Nah,” his buds called back as one. As Luke shook his head in laughter, his blond hair whisked against his neck. The chick he'd hooked up with, Faith, turned and gave him a seductive look. Thinking she must be chilly and in need of warming in that skimpy black top, he started heading toward the fire just as one of the townies who'd crashed the party ran his bottle down her arm. Luke's eyes narrowed as Faith shivered and gave the guy a smile.

Luke hadn't taken more than three steps when a song, so faint that it seemed barely more than a buzzing in his ear, stopped him cold. He shook his head, trying to clear it. When he looked up again, there was a haze in the air that hadn't been there a moment ago. The fire seemed to be miles away. He reached a hand out, but no one seemed to notice him. The song, which was coming from the sea, had become louder and was drowning out the noise of the party. Turning to the ocean, he scanned the beach, but saw only scattered rocks and the waves that crashed against the shore. The music reminded him of whale song, but something about it made him think it was being forced out of a human throat. Its eerie echoes drew him forward, step by step, against his will.

A silhouette at the shoreline caught his eye. As he was pulled closer, all he could see was one long braid, pale white but intertwined with something thin and dark. When he'd been fifteen, he'd found the spine of a fish at Sandy Point: bleached bones with seaweed clinging to them. The braid reminded him of those bones.

The music washed away his thoughts like waves covering up footsteps in the sand until there was nothing but the figure and the solitary song. When he was just a few feet away, the figure turned, and he could that see it was a woman, her dress draped down so far that it washed back and forth against her ankles like the waves washing against the shore. It's color also shifted, from the dark brown of the sand beneath her feet to the heavy blackness of the sea behind her. Scattered across her dress was lace that seemed to be patterned after the foam left in the wake of the waves as they were drawn back into the sea. Her eyes, as gray as storm clouds, held no welcome. A large comb was worked into her hair. Its three stylized waves in varying shades of electric blue were toped by silver whitecaps and, above that, a reddish-orange sun. She held out one pale hand out, palm facing him. As her long fingers curled into a fist, he felt them reeling him in.

“What's up, babe?” He jumped, startled, and turned to see a confused blur of black hair and clothes, pale white skin, and red, red lips moving between him and the woman. He blinked, trying to see clearly. Faith. It was Faith. “Boy toy here is taken,” she said, grabbing his hand and dragging him back to the fire, “but I'm sure you could find somebody who'd go for that whole washed out look.”

He stumbled along behind her, feeling slightly dazed. “Come on,” she said, pulling him closer. “One of your buds set up a beer bong.”

“All right,” he said, trying for his usual enthusiasm. It sounded half-hearted to his ears, but Faith didn't seem to notice. When he glanced back, unable to resist one last look at the woman, the beach was empty. Shivering, he pulled closer to Faith's fire as they walked through the darkness.