Fic: Athame (Bun, Roxie)
Title: Athame
Author: minerva_fan
Fandom: Eastwick
Characters: Bun Waverly, Roxie Torcoletti
Rating: PG
Summary: Loss cuts like an athame through armor, releasing something primal, hot, and destructive. Bun has felt the cut of the knife in her own life; now she must move to protect someone so very dear to her from delving into the dark, molten dangers beneath the surface.
The air in Eastwick smelled of magic. Every morning, for thirty years, Bun Waverly had inhaled the cosmic intensity of this tiny little town into her body, greedily consuming its history, its power, its very molecules of energy. The town nourished her, charmed her, invited her to be so much more than just this collection of nerves and muscles and synapses wrapped in rapidly aging skin and bones.
Eastwick had claimed Bun Waverly for its own, and Bun had no intention of fighting her indenture.
She stretched in the morning sunlight, slow and deep, aware of herself for the first time in weeks. It was so very like him to attack her that way, clouding her thoughts and obscuring history from her eyes.
History had brought her here back in 1978. Neurotic, repressed, a living breathing anachronism in the wildish era of disco and drugs, Bun had found this place a safe haven against the modern world. Here she could hide herself in books, in old diaries and letters, in the hand-written reflections of lives lived long before she ever started renting space on this planet.
If Eastwick had been any other town, perhaps she might have lived out her life that way. Perhaps, in some other place, in some other atmosphere, she might have remained Bun Waverly, town librarian, historian, and guiltily-invited guest for holiday meals.
But Eastwick had had other plans for Bun, just as apparently it had other plans for these new young women.
Bun strode purposefully through the streets of Eastwick towards Roxie’s shop. To the outer world, she was a well-kept older woman, thick grey-blonde hair, heavier with age than she had been in her twenties, dressed in a slightly Bohemian style. But in her mind, she was Bun Waverly, witch, guardian, and protector of the ignorant, the misused, and the too powerful for their own good.
Roxie’s shop was dark when she arrived. She looked around her and, when she saw no one lurking, pulled the spare key from under the flower plant. She didn’t bother with the bell or calling out. Instinct drove her more than anything else, her connection to this young woman so strong and compelling. There was a flutter, a hesitation in time and space towards the back of the store where the outer apartment was. Bun paused, wondering if she should go to the boy first. He’d have to be dealt with-she’d already started formulating her plan with Eleanor Rougement on how to handle the Jaimie Issue.
But not now. Now she needed to find Roxie, needed to make sure she was okay.
He fed on heartache and vulnerability, and Roxie was surely proving a very tempting morsel at the moment.
“Roxie?”
There was a noise from the apartment Roxie and her teenage daughter Mia shared. Bun followed it, drawing in her awareness until it formed a tight, buzzing shell around her person. She tried very hard around people to pull in and respect boundaries, even people she loved.
And Bun loved Roxie.
“Hey, Bun.” Roxie came out of the apartment, her long blonde tresses pulled into a messy tangle at the back of her head. She was dressed in black jeans and a black tee shirt, wiping her hands on the paint-smeared apron she wore. There were streaks of teal and slate and seaweed and foam on her face, the colors of the bay in a storm, the colors of nature in mourning. Her eyes were focused elsewhere, elsewhen, another place and time.
Bun watched her for a moment, content to see her through clear eyes again. She’d been drawn to Roxie Torcoletti about a second and a half after making her acquaintance, connected by that unmistakable electric cord of sameness that had drawn soul-mates, mystics, and lunatics to each other throughout time.
And in that moment of contemplation, she saw it as another woman might have noticed a bruise or cut. The loss was scratched across Roxie with blood red clarity, and Bun felt her own heart rip at the sight of it.
“Who died?” she asked softly.
Roxie’s head shot up, locking eyes with the older woman, first in anger, then in recognition. “Bun? Oh, my god, Bun, you’re back!” There were no explanations needed. Roxie flung herself into Bun’s embrace, the tears coming freely as she realized that her friend had regained her memories.
Bun said nothing. No need to explain what Eleanor had done, how Kat had brought her to the crazy old bitch in hopes of finding healing for the memory loss that had plagued her since the stroke. Kat would tell her in her own time-Kat was the second, Roxie the first. There was a third, one she’d never met before, the girl who’d almost been burned on the sacrificial fire.
The cone of power was reshaping itself, seeking new blood to replace the old that had withered, gone mad or simply hidden itself away.
Bun felt the smile forming in the creases around her mouth as she hugged Roxie tightly. “Yeah. I’m back.” She pulled away slightly, wiping a tear from Roxie’s cheek. “Who died?”
And Roxie told her without uttering a single word. The horror on her face, the guilt in her eyes, the burden of superstition and gossip and hatefulness bourne for years without help, spoke volumes.
“Chad,” Bun whispered, and Roxie nodded, sniffing loudly. “The funeral?”
“This morning. How did you get your-“
“That’s not important,” Bun said. “Make some tea.”
“I don’t like tea.”
“You love tea,” Bun insisted, leading her toward the apartment. “You love tea because it’s good for you, and because I walked all the way here from the Historical Society and I’m thirsty.” She chuckled at Roxie’s rolled eyes, at her look of gratitude and love.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said.
Bun nodded. Years ago, she’d come here after a funeral, after Danny had died. Roxie had already started hearing the murmurs, the whispered epithet Black Widow from the benighted bourgeoisie who crawled on the surface of the planet, ignorant of anything past their own bank books and gonads. Years ago, she’d had tea, held Roxie’s hand, let her release the pain and grief and shock in a safe way.
Today, Roxie was releasing on her own, and Bun shivered in recognition of what radiated from her young friend.
He would know.
He would see it, sense it, sniff it off her like a rutting dog.
How much do they know?
Eleanor thought not much, but enough. Kat had already healed and turned the weather without discretion. Roxie spoke freely of her visions, and the little Frenkl girl used her powers like a superhero on speed.
There was so little time. Already he’d insinuated himself into their lives, just like he’d always done, just like he would always do.
It was impossible to kill him.
Sebastian.
Darryl.
Bon swallowed hard, remembering the feel of him when he’d pinned her to the chair on Halloween. Even now, with everything between them, with blood and murder and hate and fear and decades of time to ingest her own guilt, even now with full knowledge of who he was and what he could do, even now Bun felt his power drawing her to him. The unholy combination of loathing and desire cut through her with the precision of an athame, tickling the edges of dark impulses she’d thought put down for good.
He already had his claws into Roxie, into Kat and Joanna and heaven knew who else.
Bun embraced Roxie again, impulsively, hard and clinging and terrified. He wanted her, this beautiful woman-child soul friend of hers.
And Bun was not about to let him have her.
“You okay?” Roxie asked, the concern apparent in her voice.
What could she say? There was nothing to tell yet, nothing that wouldn’t have Bun committed. She had to play her cards carefully, had to hold tight to the plan she and Eleanor had devised over tea and bad memories. “I’m fine. I’m just…so sorry for your loss, dear.”
“Thank you, Bun.”
“You’ve been painting,” she said.
“Yeah.” Roxie’s face held in that moment all the beautiful potential of any woman ever, and Bun felt her breath catch in her throat at the sight of her. Loss and passion and creative wildfires burned in those lovely eyes. “It’s weird, but I feel like…I don’t know, Bun, like something has been released in me. All I can do is paint-it’s like…” She grinned, helpless to find the words to express the inexpressible. “It’s like, wow.”
“Yeah…wow.” Bun recognized, and remembered. Almost thirty years ago her own eyes had blazed with that fierce, first burst of power, freed by loss and the feeling of nothing left to lose.
You have so much more to lose, child, she thought, fighting the tears in her eyes.
“You wanna see?”
Bun nodded her head as Roxie brought her toward the studio. The work would be glorious-passionate and untamed and disturbing. It would open up that crack in Roxie’s armor like a crowbar, and she would burst full-blown from the fissure like an erupting volcano. Already she was oozing power as visible as the plume of ash and smoke above Mount Vesuvius.
It might already be too late.
Bun plastered a smile to her lips, urged it to spread to her eyes if at all possible. She had to be strong. This battle was only beginning. “Yes, sweetheart. Show me what you’ve done.”
END
Author: minerva_fan
Fandom: Eastwick
Characters: Bun Waverly, Roxie Torcoletti
Rating: PG
Summary: Loss cuts like an athame through armor, releasing something primal, hot, and destructive. Bun has felt the cut of the knife in her own life; now she must move to protect someone so very dear to her from delving into the dark, molten dangers beneath the surface.
The air in Eastwick smelled of magic. Every morning, for thirty years, Bun Waverly had inhaled the cosmic intensity of this tiny little town into her body, greedily consuming its history, its power, its very molecules of energy. The town nourished her, charmed her, invited her to be so much more than just this collection of nerves and muscles and synapses wrapped in rapidly aging skin and bones.
Eastwick had claimed Bun Waverly for its own, and Bun had no intention of fighting her indenture.
She stretched in the morning sunlight, slow and deep, aware of herself for the first time in weeks. It was so very like him to attack her that way, clouding her thoughts and obscuring history from her eyes.
History had brought her here back in 1978. Neurotic, repressed, a living breathing anachronism in the wildish era of disco and drugs, Bun had found this place a safe haven against the modern world. Here she could hide herself in books, in old diaries and letters, in the hand-written reflections of lives lived long before she ever started renting space on this planet.
If Eastwick had been any other town, perhaps she might have lived out her life that way. Perhaps, in some other place, in some other atmosphere, she might have remained Bun Waverly, town librarian, historian, and guiltily-invited guest for holiday meals.
But Eastwick had had other plans for Bun, just as apparently it had other plans for these new young women.
Bun strode purposefully through the streets of Eastwick towards Roxie’s shop. To the outer world, she was a well-kept older woman, thick grey-blonde hair, heavier with age than she had been in her twenties, dressed in a slightly Bohemian style. But in her mind, she was Bun Waverly, witch, guardian, and protector of the ignorant, the misused, and the too powerful for their own good.
Roxie’s shop was dark when she arrived. She looked around her and, when she saw no one lurking, pulled the spare key from under the flower plant. She didn’t bother with the bell or calling out. Instinct drove her more than anything else, her connection to this young woman so strong and compelling. There was a flutter, a hesitation in time and space towards the back of the store where the outer apartment was. Bun paused, wondering if she should go to the boy first. He’d have to be dealt with-she’d already started formulating her plan with Eleanor Rougement on how to handle the Jaimie Issue.
But not now. Now she needed to find Roxie, needed to make sure she was okay.
He fed on heartache and vulnerability, and Roxie was surely proving a very tempting morsel at the moment.
“Roxie?”
There was a noise from the apartment Roxie and her teenage daughter Mia shared. Bun followed it, drawing in her awareness until it formed a tight, buzzing shell around her person. She tried very hard around people to pull in and respect boundaries, even people she loved.
And Bun loved Roxie.
“Hey, Bun.” Roxie came out of the apartment, her long blonde tresses pulled into a messy tangle at the back of her head. She was dressed in black jeans and a black tee shirt, wiping her hands on the paint-smeared apron she wore. There were streaks of teal and slate and seaweed and foam on her face, the colors of the bay in a storm, the colors of nature in mourning. Her eyes were focused elsewhere, elsewhen, another place and time.
Bun watched her for a moment, content to see her through clear eyes again. She’d been drawn to Roxie Torcoletti about a second and a half after making her acquaintance, connected by that unmistakable electric cord of sameness that had drawn soul-mates, mystics, and lunatics to each other throughout time.
And in that moment of contemplation, she saw it as another woman might have noticed a bruise or cut. The loss was scratched across Roxie with blood red clarity, and Bun felt her own heart rip at the sight of it.
“Who died?” she asked softly.
Roxie’s head shot up, locking eyes with the older woman, first in anger, then in recognition. “Bun? Oh, my god, Bun, you’re back!” There were no explanations needed. Roxie flung herself into Bun’s embrace, the tears coming freely as she realized that her friend had regained her memories.
Bun said nothing. No need to explain what Eleanor had done, how Kat had brought her to the crazy old bitch in hopes of finding healing for the memory loss that had plagued her since the stroke. Kat would tell her in her own time-Kat was the second, Roxie the first. There was a third, one she’d never met before, the girl who’d almost been burned on the sacrificial fire.
The cone of power was reshaping itself, seeking new blood to replace the old that had withered, gone mad or simply hidden itself away.
Bun felt the smile forming in the creases around her mouth as she hugged Roxie tightly. “Yeah. I’m back.” She pulled away slightly, wiping a tear from Roxie’s cheek. “Who died?”
And Roxie told her without uttering a single word. The horror on her face, the guilt in her eyes, the burden of superstition and gossip and hatefulness bourne for years without help, spoke volumes.
“Chad,” Bun whispered, and Roxie nodded, sniffing loudly. “The funeral?”
“This morning. How did you get your-“
“That’s not important,” Bun said. “Make some tea.”
“I don’t like tea.”
“You love tea,” Bun insisted, leading her toward the apartment. “You love tea because it’s good for you, and because I walked all the way here from the Historical Society and I’m thirsty.” She chuckled at Roxie’s rolled eyes, at her look of gratitude and love.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said.
Bun nodded. Years ago, she’d come here after a funeral, after Danny had died. Roxie had already started hearing the murmurs, the whispered epithet Black Widow from the benighted bourgeoisie who crawled on the surface of the planet, ignorant of anything past their own bank books and gonads. Years ago, she’d had tea, held Roxie’s hand, let her release the pain and grief and shock in a safe way.
Today, Roxie was releasing on her own, and Bun shivered in recognition of what radiated from her young friend.
He would know.
He would see it, sense it, sniff it off her like a rutting dog.
How much do they know?
Eleanor thought not much, but enough. Kat had already healed and turned the weather without discretion. Roxie spoke freely of her visions, and the little Frenkl girl used her powers like a superhero on speed.
There was so little time. Already he’d insinuated himself into their lives, just like he’d always done, just like he would always do.
It was impossible to kill him.
Sebastian.
Darryl.
Bon swallowed hard, remembering the feel of him when he’d pinned her to the chair on Halloween. Even now, with everything between them, with blood and murder and hate and fear and decades of time to ingest her own guilt, even now with full knowledge of who he was and what he could do, even now Bun felt his power drawing her to him. The unholy combination of loathing and desire cut through her with the precision of an athame, tickling the edges of dark impulses she’d thought put down for good.
He already had his claws into Roxie, into Kat and Joanna and heaven knew who else.
Bun embraced Roxie again, impulsively, hard and clinging and terrified. He wanted her, this beautiful woman-child soul friend of hers.
And Bun was not about to let him have her.
“You okay?” Roxie asked, the concern apparent in her voice.
What could she say? There was nothing to tell yet, nothing that wouldn’t have Bun committed. She had to play her cards carefully, had to hold tight to the plan she and Eleanor had devised over tea and bad memories. “I’m fine. I’m just…so sorry for your loss, dear.”
“Thank you, Bun.”
“You’ve been painting,” she said.
“Yeah.” Roxie’s face held in that moment all the beautiful potential of any woman ever, and Bun felt her breath catch in her throat at the sight of her. Loss and passion and creative wildfires burned in those lovely eyes. “It’s weird, but I feel like…I don’t know, Bun, like something has been released in me. All I can do is paint-it’s like…” She grinned, helpless to find the words to express the inexpressible. “It’s like, wow.”
“Yeah…wow.” Bun recognized, and remembered. Almost thirty years ago her own eyes had blazed with that fierce, first burst of power, freed by loss and the feeling of nothing left to lose.
You have so much more to lose, child, she thought, fighting the tears in her eyes.
“You wanna see?”
Bun nodded her head as Roxie brought her toward the studio. The work would be glorious-passionate and untamed and disturbing. It would open up that crack in Roxie’s armor like a crowbar, and she would burst full-blown from the fissure like an erupting volcano. Already she was oozing power as visible as the plume of ash and smoke above Mount Vesuvius.
It might already be too late.
Bun plastered a smile to her lips, urged it to spread to her eyes if at all possible. She had to be strong. This battle was only beginning. “Yes, sweetheart. Show me what you’ve done.”
END