Fic: Scorned 3/8
Sep. 14th, 2010 09:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonyphoenixTitle: 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; I didn't ask diebirchen to review this section because my Internet connection problems would have made getting her response back home (from the library) a real pain in the neck. So, sorry about the grammar; we should be back to normal betas for the next section.
A little more than three hours later, Faith dressed herself quietly, not even giving Luke, who was snoring under a sheet, a second glance. Slipping out the back door, she let it bang shut behind her as she dashed down the wooden stairs to the beach. Racing along the shore as if she couldn't get away fast enough, Faith missed how the rustling of the reeds sounded like muted whispers as a breeze, carrying a stench of dead fish, wafted its way up the stairs.
By the time Faith had run the six miles back to Aidan's house, she was starting to feel like she might be able to crash. As she walked up from the beach, she saw light from Aidan's study. “Burning the midnight oil,” she said, even though it was well after the witching hour. Picking up her pace, she dashed around the edge of the property to the front of the house, hoping to put off any confrontations till, well, indefinitely would be best but tomorrow would do. With a small jump, she grabbed the lower edge of the roof and pulled herself up. A graceful flip took her over the railing onto the widow's walk and then it was just a quick scamper along the roof.
Faith listened until she was sure the room was empty before sliding in through the window. There was a lamp on the bedstand, and she flipped it on as she threw herself onto the bed. Then she froze. Below the lamp was an envelope with her name written in a large, flowing script. Feeling an unexpected weight as she picked it up, Faith peered in. There was a key inside. Pulling out the paper, she noted that the off-white sheet was thicker than the paper she was used to, more like stuff Petra had kept around her house. I thought you might prefer to use the front door in the future was written in the same hand. It was signed with all three of his names, Aidan Nelson Taylor.
Faith stared at the key. For me? she wondered. Even though she'd lived in the townhouse, Petra had never given her a key, preferring to keep tabs on her whereabouts. Not that it had stopped Faith. It wasn't like the window was hard to climb out of, even it it was on the second story. Petra, quickly realizing she wasn't going to stop Faith's excursions, had ignored them. Well, not totally. She'd usually woken Faith up earlier the next day, held back the coffee, and had given Faith impossibly duller lessons than usual, but Faith had shrugged that off. Getting out had been worth it.
But this meant– Faith shook her head. She wasn't sure what it meant. “Tomorrow's soon enough to find out how much like his cousin Aidan is,” she said, collapsing onto the bed. Reaching over, she turned off the light.
Wesley hadn't been in America long enough to get used to the time difference. Even though he'd gone to bed after eleven, he woke at 2 AM. There was a clock by his bedside, ticking off the long minutes. As he lay there, unable to return to sleep, his thoughts turned to Faith's previous Watcher, Mrs. Petra Burnand. He'd never met her, but he'd gone through her Watcher Diaries after he'd taken over her position.
What he couldn't understand was why she'd recommended Mr. Taylor as a teacher for Faith. While it wasn't unprecedented to bring in an expert to train a Slayer, it was unusual and, as far as Wesley could tell, Mrs. Burnand had been doing a perfectly adequate job on her own. Her mistake had been in stepping out into the field. A Watcher, being dedicated to research, inspires and guides his Slayer from the safety of his library. He is a neutral agent, Wesley thought with a smug, self-satisfied air. The words were straight out of the Watchers' Handbook, which emphasized the responsibilities of a Watcher, but also that the neutrality of the Watchers kept them safe from demonic activity.
Mrs. Burnand stepped outside the bounds. I shan't make that mistake. If she'd kept to her duty, Kakistos wouldn't have– Wesley's thoughts stopped there. While he'd been taught that, as a Watcher, he'd be safe from demons, he'd read too many histories where a Watcher had been attacked and killed. Wesley wasn't unintelligent, but it had simply never occurred to him that the Council could have lied.
Rolling over so that he couldn't see the clock hands ticking away, Wesley pounded his pillow into a reasonable shape and closed his eyes. Hours passed before he slept.
When he woke to the sound of footsteps in the hallway, the alarm clock told him it was 6 AM. While they weren't loud, the nights he'd spent in Mrs. Burnand's home had been unnerving, to say the least. Even though she hadn't died there, the thought that she'd been killed at a vampire's hands had disturbed Wesley so much that he'd jumped at the slightest sound.
As Wesley looked around, the walls of the room reminded him of boarding school. They were a generic off-white color that had invariably, at school at least, gotten scuff-marked by the end of each semester. What Wesley didn't know was that Aidan's wife, having chosen the room as a nursery, had painted it in bright yellows and greens, adding colorful sketches of ducklings to the walls. After she'd died, Aidan had painted it over, removing all personality from the room.
As Wesley put on his navy pinstripe suit, selected to assert his authority, he worried a bit about power ties, finally settling on the steel gray as best conveying stern leadership. Brigit, wearing a crimson robe, was just coming up the stairs as he was heading down. “Good morning,” she said from behind a yawn. “Breakfast's in about two hours.”
“Oh, um, yes,” he said. As she continued up the stairs, he called after her, “I don't suppose there's a newspaper?”
Turning, she gave him an apologetic smile. “No. Aidan says their a distraction from his work. I'm over at my parent's house often enough that I catch up on the news then.”
“Ah,” he replied, disconcerted that there wasn't a regular delivery to the house. In his Advanced Research class, he'd quite excelled in spotting demonic activity through newspaper articles. In fact, he'd gotten the only A.
“There's a newsstand in town,” she said, glancing down the hallway. “It should be open by now.”
“Right. Thank you. I'll, um, just be on my way then.” It wasn't even a ten minute drive into town, through roads shaded over by trees whose branches bent out above almost touching enough to form archways overhead.
Finding a bagel shop next to the newsstand, Wesley settled in with his papers, a cup of tea, and a danish to tide him over until breakfast. The danish remained half eaten and his tea grew cold as he excitedly circled headings and underlined phrases in the newspaper. When he did finally look up, it was a bit after eight. Breakfast, he thought. Good, that means they'll be awake. The drive back flew by as Wesley thought about what his first demon, out in the field, might turn out to be. He was practically bouncing with excitement as he barged into the dining room, so focused on sharing his findings that he barely noticed anyone but Mr. Taylor at the table.
“Thirty-eight,” he shouted. “ Thirty-eight drownings in the past year.” He tossed the paper, proof of his diligence, down onto the table with a loud slap.
Mr. Taylor put down his fork and stared up. “So?” Wesley stood there, his jaw moving up and down. He didn't know what to say. His professors had always been supportive. Turning back to his breakfast, Mr. Taylor added, “We're near the ocean. There are always fools getting in over their heads.”
“But, but so many?” Waving away his doubts, Wesley added, “I suspect demonic activity. We should investigate.”
“Not my problem. You can deal with it as you wish,” Mr. Taylor said.
“Not your problem?” Wesley exploded. “You're a Watcher, man.” Or you were, he thought, but managed not to say.
As Faith tilted back her chair, with a huge grin on her face, Wesley noticed the others at the table. Faith, as the Slayer, would naturally overhear Watcher business eventually. He wasn't thrilled that Brigit was there, but she was already in the know, not that Wesley was happy about that. No, what gave him pause was that the girls, Claire and Grace, were also at the table.
“My brother works in the Coroner's Office,” Grace piped up when nobody else spoke. “If there was anything strange, I'm sure he would have noticed it.”
“I'm sure he's well trained.” Wesley's tone of voice suggested exactly the opposite. “But he can't know what to look for.” Oh dear, I'm discussing demons with a child, and one doesn't belong to the Watcher families at that. Wesley's lips tightened. It's all his fault, he thought glaring over at Mr. Taylor, who calmly took a sip of his tea. If he hadn't interfered, Faith and I would be securely settled in Boston now.
“Oh, but he–“ the girl began.
“Grace,” Brigit warned in a bit of conversation went unnoticed by Wesley.
“Faith,” he said, asserting his authority. “After breakfast we'll start reviewing how far along, um, your education is.”
“Aw, man. I only got a couple of hours sleep–“
“He's right,” Mr. Taylor interrupted. “Your studies will be just as important as your physical training.”
Faith glared but didn't complain further. Relieved that he wouldn't have to argue with the girl, Wesley tried to feel indignant at Mr. Taylor's interference. He certainly didn't want to be indebted to the man, but perhaps Mr. Taylor's words had nothing to do with her acquiescence. She might be starting to recognize his authority as her Watcher.
“I don't suppose there's a private room?” Wesley didn't want to ask, but it was necessary if they weren't going to be overheard by the girls.
“In the basement,” Brigit replied. “The original library is across from the training room. We expanded up here later as more books came in.” Wesley, who'd grown up surrounded by huge occult libraries, didn't question why a retired Watcher would be accumulating books.
“Can I sit in?” Claire asked.
“Claire,” Mr. Taylor scolded. “You know you can't.”
“Uncle Aidan,” she replied, leaning over the table and putting more exasperation into those two words than should have been able to fit into such a small frame. Wesley was reminded of his own teenage years and how frustrated he'd gotten with Father. Not that he'd ever vocalized his feelings. “If we're both learning abut demons, we should study together.”
“Hey, you can do my homework,” Faith said, having cleared away the last bit of what had been an enormous meal from her plate. “Meet you there,” she said to Wesley as she pushed away from the table.
Wesley turned his attention to breakfast, eating quickly so he could get down to the library before Faith chose to disappear on him again.
The two officers, Armstrong and Lopez, had left the siren off as they responded to the call certain, based on the name of the caller, that it wasn't going to be a real problem. Lisa Gilman, who was one crazy old bird, had lodged so many complaints, mostly against her neighbors, that she'd practically funded the Fourth of July fireworks in court fees. Neither man expected the call to be worth their while but replied that they'd check it out.
As the car pulled onto the street, a woman dashed out in front of them. Armstrong just barely avoided hitting her by swerving the car to the right as he hit the breaks. “Lisa,” he shouted, leaping out of the car. “I don't care what's gotten you so worked up. Even my granddaughter knows better than to run out in front of cars.”
She ran straight for him, her words so full of screams that he couldn't begin to make sense of them. “Now calm down,” he shouted as he grabbed her arms to keep her from crashing right into him. “What's got you in such a ruckus?”
Still screaming, she nodded her head towards one of the beach houses. “I'll take a look,” Lopez said as he started loping over.
“Now Lopez, you get back here,” Armstrong shouted, wishing the young man wasn't so impulsive. He took a step or two after his partner but Lisa threw herself against him, wailing up a storm. “There, there,” he said, patting her on the back. “It can't be that bad.” Lopez disappeared around the side of the house. “Now you wait here,” he said to Lisa as he propped her up against the side of the car. She grabbed at him, her fingers like claws in his arm. “Lisa,” he yelled, shaking her. She calmed down enough to accept it when he said he had to go after his partner.
By then, Lopez had been gone longer than he should have been. Armstrong pulled out his gun and peered around the side of the house, just as he'd been trained to, before going around. A screen door, twisted and bent, lay smashed on the grass. When he heard someone choking, Armstrong rushed to the back and peered around the corner. Lopez was puking. As his eyes scanned past Lopez to the back deck of the house and the stairs leading down to the beach, Armstrong took a step back. “Sweet Mother of God.”
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; I didn't ask diebirchen to review this section because my Internet connection problems would have made getting her response back home (from the library) a real pain in the neck. So, sorry about the grammar; we should be back to normal betas for the next section.
A little more than three hours later, Faith dressed herself quietly, not even giving Luke, who was snoring under a sheet, a second glance. Slipping out the back door, she let it bang shut behind her as she dashed down the wooden stairs to the beach. Racing along the shore as if she couldn't get away fast enough, Faith missed how the rustling of the reeds sounded like muted whispers as a breeze, carrying a stench of dead fish, wafted its way up the stairs.
By the time Faith had run the six miles back to Aidan's house, she was starting to feel like she might be able to crash. As she walked up from the beach, she saw light from Aidan's study. “Burning the midnight oil,” she said, even though it was well after the witching hour. Picking up her pace, she dashed around the edge of the property to the front of the house, hoping to put off any confrontations till, well, indefinitely would be best but tomorrow would do. With a small jump, she grabbed the lower edge of the roof and pulled herself up. A graceful flip took her over the railing onto the widow's walk and then it was just a quick scamper along the roof.
Faith listened until she was sure the room was empty before sliding in through the window. There was a lamp on the bedstand, and she flipped it on as she threw herself onto the bed. Then she froze. Below the lamp was an envelope with her name written in a large, flowing script. Feeling an unexpected weight as she picked it up, Faith peered in. There was a key inside. Pulling out the paper, she noted that the off-white sheet was thicker than the paper she was used to, more like stuff Petra had kept around her house. I thought you might prefer to use the front door in the future was written in the same hand. It was signed with all three of his names, Aidan Nelson Taylor.
Faith stared at the key. For me? she wondered. Even though she'd lived in the townhouse, Petra had never given her a key, preferring to keep tabs on her whereabouts. Not that it had stopped Faith. It wasn't like the window was hard to climb out of, even it it was on the second story. Petra, quickly realizing she wasn't going to stop Faith's excursions, had ignored them. Well, not totally. She'd usually woken Faith up earlier the next day, held back the coffee, and had given Faith impossibly duller lessons than usual, but Faith had shrugged that off. Getting out had been worth it.
But this meant– Faith shook her head. She wasn't sure what it meant. “Tomorrow's soon enough to find out how much like his cousin Aidan is,” she said, collapsing onto the bed. Reaching over, she turned off the light.
* * *
Wesley hadn't been in America long enough to get used to the time difference. Even though he'd gone to bed after eleven, he woke at 2 AM. There was a clock by his bedside, ticking off the long minutes. As he lay there, unable to return to sleep, his thoughts turned to Faith's previous Watcher, Mrs. Petra Burnand. He'd never met her, but he'd gone through her Watcher Diaries after he'd taken over her position.
What he couldn't understand was why she'd recommended Mr. Taylor as a teacher for Faith. While it wasn't unprecedented to bring in an expert to train a Slayer, it was unusual and, as far as Wesley could tell, Mrs. Burnand had been doing a perfectly adequate job on her own. Her mistake had been in stepping out into the field. A Watcher, being dedicated to research, inspires and guides his Slayer from the safety of his library. He is a neutral agent, Wesley thought with a smug, self-satisfied air. The words were straight out of the Watchers' Handbook, which emphasized the responsibilities of a Watcher, but also that the neutrality of the Watchers kept them safe from demonic activity.
Mrs. Burnand stepped outside the bounds. I shan't make that mistake. If she'd kept to her duty, Kakistos wouldn't have– Wesley's thoughts stopped there. While he'd been taught that, as a Watcher, he'd be safe from demons, he'd read too many histories where a Watcher had been attacked and killed. Wesley wasn't unintelligent, but it had simply never occurred to him that the Council could have lied.
Rolling over so that he couldn't see the clock hands ticking away, Wesley pounded his pillow into a reasonable shape and closed his eyes. Hours passed before he slept.
When he woke to the sound of footsteps in the hallway, the alarm clock told him it was 6 AM. While they weren't loud, the nights he'd spent in Mrs. Burnand's home had been unnerving, to say the least. Even though she hadn't died there, the thought that she'd been killed at a vampire's hands had disturbed Wesley so much that he'd jumped at the slightest sound.
As Wesley looked around, the walls of the room reminded him of boarding school. They were a generic off-white color that had invariably, at school at least, gotten scuff-marked by the end of each semester. What Wesley didn't know was that Aidan's wife, having chosen the room as a nursery, had painted it in bright yellows and greens, adding colorful sketches of ducklings to the walls. After she'd died, Aidan had painted it over, removing all personality from the room.
As Wesley put on his navy pinstripe suit, selected to assert his authority, he worried a bit about power ties, finally settling on the steel gray as best conveying stern leadership. Brigit, wearing a crimson robe, was just coming up the stairs as he was heading down. “Good morning,” she said from behind a yawn. “Breakfast's in about two hours.”
“Oh, um, yes,” he said. As she continued up the stairs, he called after her, “I don't suppose there's a newspaper?”
Turning, she gave him an apologetic smile. “No. Aidan says their a distraction from his work. I'm over at my parent's house often enough that I catch up on the news then.”
“Ah,” he replied, disconcerted that there wasn't a regular delivery to the house. In his Advanced Research class, he'd quite excelled in spotting demonic activity through newspaper articles. In fact, he'd gotten the only A.
“There's a newsstand in town,” she said, glancing down the hallway. “It should be open by now.”
“Right. Thank you. I'll, um, just be on my way then.” It wasn't even a ten minute drive into town, through roads shaded over by trees whose branches bent out above almost touching enough to form archways overhead.
Finding a bagel shop next to the newsstand, Wesley settled in with his papers, a cup of tea, and a danish to tide him over until breakfast. The danish remained half eaten and his tea grew cold as he excitedly circled headings and underlined phrases in the newspaper. When he did finally look up, it was a bit after eight. Breakfast, he thought. Good, that means they'll be awake. The drive back flew by as Wesley thought about what his first demon, out in the field, might turn out to be. He was practically bouncing with excitement as he barged into the dining room, so focused on sharing his findings that he barely noticed anyone but Mr. Taylor at the table.
“Thirty-eight,” he shouted. “ Thirty-eight drownings in the past year.” He tossed the paper, proof of his diligence, down onto the table with a loud slap.
Mr. Taylor put down his fork and stared up. “So?” Wesley stood there, his jaw moving up and down. He didn't know what to say. His professors had always been supportive. Turning back to his breakfast, Mr. Taylor added, “We're near the ocean. There are always fools getting in over their heads.”
“But, but so many?” Waving away his doubts, Wesley added, “I suspect demonic activity. We should investigate.”
“Not my problem. You can deal with it as you wish,” Mr. Taylor said.
“Not your problem?” Wesley exploded. “You're a Watcher, man.” Or you were, he thought, but managed not to say.
As Faith tilted back her chair, with a huge grin on her face, Wesley noticed the others at the table. Faith, as the Slayer, would naturally overhear Watcher business eventually. He wasn't thrilled that Brigit was there, but she was already in the know, not that Wesley was happy about that. No, what gave him pause was that the girls, Claire and Grace, were also at the table.
“My brother works in the Coroner's Office,” Grace piped up when nobody else spoke. “If there was anything strange, I'm sure he would have noticed it.”
“I'm sure he's well trained.” Wesley's tone of voice suggested exactly the opposite. “But he can't know what to look for.” Oh dear, I'm discussing demons with a child, and one doesn't belong to the Watcher families at that. Wesley's lips tightened. It's all his fault, he thought glaring over at Mr. Taylor, who calmly took a sip of his tea. If he hadn't interfered, Faith and I would be securely settled in Boston now.
“Oh, but he–“ the girl began.
“Grace,” Brigit warned in a bit of conversation went unnoticed by Wesley.
“Faith,” he said, asserting his authority. “After breakfast we'll start reviewing how far along, um, your education is.”
“Aw, man. I only got a couple of hours sleep–“
“He's right,” Mr. Taylor interrupted. “Your studies will be just as important as your physical training.”
Faith glared but didn't complain further. Relieved that he wouldn't have to argue with the girl, Wesley tried to feel indignant at Mr. Taylor's interference. He certainly didn't want to be indebted to the man, but perhaps Mr. Taylor's words had nothing to do with her acquiescence. She might be starting to recognize his authority as her Watcher.
“I don't suppose there's a private room?” Wesley didn't want to ask, but it was necessary if they weren't going to be overheard by the girls.
“In the basement,” Brigit replied. “The original library is across from the training room. We expanded up here later as more books came in.” Wesley, who'd grown up surrounded by huge occult libraries, didn't question why a retired Watcher would be accumulating books.
“Can I sit in?” Claire asked.
“Claire,” Mr. Taylor scolded. “You know you can't.”
“Uncle Aidan,” she replied, leaning over the table and putting more exasperation into those two words than should have been able to fit into such a small frame. Wesley was reminded of his own teenage years and how frustrated he'd gotten with Father. Not that he'd ever vocalized his feelings. “If we're both learning abut demons, we should study together.”
“Hey, you can do my homework,” Faith said, having cleared away the last bit of what had been an enormous meal from her plate. “Meet you there,” she said to Wesley as she pushed away from the table.
Wesley turned his attention to breakfast, eating quickly so he could get down to the library before Faith chose to disappear on him again.
* * *
The two officers, Armstrong and Lopez, had left the siren off as they responded to the call certain, based on the name of the caller, that it wasn't going to be a real problem. Lisa Gilman, who was one crazy old bird, had lodged so many complaints, mostly against her neighbors, that she'd practically funded the Fourth of July fireworks in court fees. Neither man expected the call to be worth their while but replied that they'd check it out.
As the car pulled onto the street, a woman dashed out in front of them. Armstrong just barely avoided hitting her by swerving the car to the right as he hit the breaks. “Lisa,” he shouted, leaping out of the car. “I don't care what's gotten you so worked up. Even my granddaughter knows better than to run out in front of cars.”
She ran straight for him, her words so full of screams that he couldn't begin to make sense of them. “Now calm down,” he shouted as he grabbed her arms to keep her from crashing right into him. “What's got you in such a ruckus?”
Still screaming, she nodded her head towards one of the beach houses. “I'll take a look,” Lopez said as he started loping over.
“Now Lopez, you get back here,” Armstrong shouted, wishing the young man wasn't so impulsive. He took a step or two after his partner but Lisa threw herself against him, wailing up a storm. “There, there,” he said, patting her on the back. “It can't be that bad.” Lopez disappeared around the side of the house. “Now you wait here,” he said to Lisa as he propped her up against the side of the car. She grabbed at him, her fingers like claws in his arm. “Lisa,” he yelled, shaking her. She calmed down enough to accept it when he said he had to go after his partner.
By then, Lopez had been gone longer than he should have been. Armstrong pulled out his gun and peered around the side of the house, just as he'd been trained to, before going around. A screen door, twisted and bent, lay smashed on the grass. When he heard someone choking, Armstrong rushed to the back and peered around the corner. Lopez was puking. As his eyes scanned past Lopez to the back deck of the house and the stairs leading down to the beach, Armstrong took a step back. “Sweet Mother of God.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-09-15 02:42 am (UTC)But it sounds like I did a reasonable job with the suspense! ;-)
no subject
Date: 2010-09-16 12:26 am (UTC)