Fanfic: Red Ants and Lavender Tea (Eastwick, TV)
Title: Red Ants and Lavender Tea
Author: MinervaFan
Fandom: Eastwick (TV)
Characters: Bun Waverly, Eleanor Rougement
Word Count: 1438 words
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Through Episode 7: “Red Ants and Black Widows”
Summary: One thing was absolutely certain. Something had to be done about Darryl Van Horne.
The house practically oozed Eleanor from every nook and cranny. Now that those dreadful red ants were out of her at last, Bun Waverly could see clearly again for the first time in weeks.
That her first clear vision in a month had to be Eleanor Rougement's travesty of a kitchen seemed less than fortunate, but Bun was not the sort to look a gift horse in the eye.
Make that a gift witch.
Bun looked around as Eleanor puttered about in the kitchen under the pretext of making tea. She wasn't sure what constituted tea in this madhouse, but she was going to make damned sure her friend took the first sip.
I am not going to poison you, you paranoid old flake.
Bun turned sharply to glare at the other woman, who simply raised her eyebrows until they were just beneath that awful turban she wore. “I am not paranoid. I'm just practical. And it's rude to project your thoughts without permission like that.”
“Can I help it if you're a snoop?”? Eleanor carried the tea pot and two mugs to the table where Bun sat, setting them down without grace as she eased into the chair across the table. “Damned telepathy. You never could keep your head out of other people's business.”
“I didn't come here to argue with you,” Bun said tiredly.
“No, you came to get cured-which, I might add, I did. And you're welcome.” Eleanor poured herself a large cup of tea and, with a sly expression, downed a huge gulp. “Safe enough for a baby,” she said, pushing a mug in front of Bun. When Bun hesitated, she laughed. “I'm not going to serve you, Princess Grace. You can pour your own damned tea.”
With a sigh, Bun poured herself a full mug of tea. It steamed in her cup, smelling of lavender and vanilla, fresh from the garden. She had to admit, as she sipped slowly, Eleanor always made a great pot of tea. “Thank you,” she said, a bit belatedly. Whether it was for the tea or the knitting needles to the base of her skull, she wasn't sure. But the more she drank, the calmer she felt. Calmer than she'd felt since she first felt his presence, back in Eastwick after all these years. “These children have no idea what they're in for,” she said, speaking into her cup.
“Idiots,” Eleanor agreed. She'd never been one for extraneous conversation. Bun was about to prompt her for more when she continued on her own. “That girl has more natural healing power than I've seen in ages. She's a savant-of the idiot variety, if you ask me.”
“Kat is a nice girl.”
“Kat is an idiot,” Eleanor said. She grabbed a banana out of the bowl on the table and began peeling it. “'Teach me about my gift,' she says, and then runs like a wet cat out the door the minute I try.” She bit into the banana with a sort of vicious satisfaction that reminded Bun why people had always been a little afraid of Eleanor. “The other one-the brunette-she's not scared of it. She's just--”
“An idiot?” Bun knew that according to Eleanor, anyone who wasn't her was either an idiot, evil, or inconsequential. Her latent misanthropy might be mildly amusing on a good day; today, it was downright distracting. “Listen to me, these girls are getting in deeper by the day. He's got his hooks in them, and we've got to help them.”
Eleanor sighed dramatically. Back in the old days, Eleanor had been so much more outgoing. Now she seemed relish her eccentricity like a miser loved his gold. She rolled in it like jelly, all gooey and sweet and oddly repulsive.
“Eleanor, he's not going to be so easy to fight this time.”
“You called that easy?” The bitterness in Eleanor's tone was undeniable.
Bun held her tongue. They had both lost so much, sacrificed so much, back then. It had been necessary. It had been unavoidable.
But nobody could say for a minute that it had been easy.
“No,” she whispered. “No, it wasn't easy at all. But he's stronger. I saw him. He doesn't look a day older than he did when we--” She hesitated. The words still felt harsh on her tongue, unnatural and wrong.
“When we killed him? Don't mince words, Bun. Coy doesn't suit you.” Eleanor was pouring them both another cup of tea.
“I'm not being coy. He almost killed me. He disoriented me, got to me before I even knew what hit me.”
“Shields for shit,” Eleanor muttered.
“My shields are excellent, and you know it.” Bun shivered, remembering the feel of the ants crawling on her flesh, each tiny creature burning into her skin, needles of fire piercing into her. “He blasted right through.”
“Mine are good.” Eleanor's eyes flitted to the sigil she'd carved in power spots around the house. It was the same ward both women had tattooed on their ankles, the same one Bun had scribbled over and over on a legal pad in the hospital.
The one that had spontaneously burst into flames while she slept.
“What about the other one? The Torkaletti girl?”
Bun looked up from her own thoughts, surprised that Eleanor even knew about Roxie. “She's definitely embracing her powers. Last week, she had a vision that saved her friend from being burned alive. Joanna Frenkle. She's a reporter,” Bun explained. “Pissed off a minister, and he tried to burn her alive.”
“Jeeze, can't these creeps come up with anything new? Burning witches is so seventeenth century.”
“Everything isn't a joke, Eleanor. These girls are fairly leaking power everywhere they go, and he's not going to let them walk away with it.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes. “And let me guess. Not a single one of them is smart enough to be suspicious.”
Bun couldn't help smiling gently. “No more suspicious than we were.”
“It was a simpler time.”
“We were just as clueless, and you know it. Face it, none of the three of us had ever even dreamed of the kind of life he gave us. And if things hadn't gone--”
“To hell in a handbasket?”
Bun nodded. “Who knows where we'd have ended up.”
Eleanor closed her eyes. For a moment, she looked the age that Bun felt. Twenty years was a long time, and now they were a sister short. Bun felt a pang in her heart for their lost one, a pain so deep she barely recognized it as pain anymore. Without a word, Eleanor reached out for her hand and held it for a long while. “We're gonna have to train these girls up, if they're going to be any use to us at all,” she said finally.
“Are we up to it?”
“We have to be,” Eleanor said plainly. “Because there is no way I'm letting that bastard run amok in this town again.”
“Agreed.”
It was a dark silence that followed, one full of memories neither woman felt particularly inclined to verbalize in the moment. And then Eleanor was up, clearing the mugs and putting them to soak in the sink. “Okay, enough strolling down Memory Lane. You take yours, the blonde, and get her as up to speed as you can. I'll try to knock some sense into Florence Nightenshade, and we'll split Lois Lane between us.”
Bun nodded, drawing in a hard breath. “I don't know if I'm up to this,” she added under her breath.
“Well, get up to it,” her friend said, a look of determination flashing on her eloquent features. “Because I sure as hell bet Darryl Van Horne did not come here to play.”
“No,” Bun said. She was sure as hell he hadn't come here to play. “We're not playing, either,” she said.
Eleanor wiped off the table, then turned back to open a cupboard door just above the refrigerator. She pulled out her copy of the Book.
“You keep it in the kitchen?”
This got her a pair of rolled eyes and a snort. “You tell me what place is safer in this house?”
“Point taken.”
The Book was heavy-she'd added to it over the years, Bun could tell. Opening the heavy leather cover, Eleanor looked at her with a dread determination in her eyes. Bun knew from that moment forward, nobody was playing anything at all.
“So,” Eleanor said as she flipped the pages. “It's time to figure out how to kill a demon...again.”
The End
Author: MinervaFan
Fandom: Eastwick (TV)
Characters: Bun Waverly, Eleanor Rougement
Word Count: 1438 words
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Through Episode 7: “Red Ants and Black Widows”
Summary: One thing was absolutely certain. Something had to be done about Darryl Van Horne.
The house practically oozed Eleanor from every nook and cranny. Now that those dreadful red ants were out of her at last, Bun Waverly could see clearly again for the first time in weeks.
That her first clear vision in a month had to be Eleanor Rougement's travesty of a kitchen seemed less than fortunate, but Bun was not the sort to look a gift horse in the eye.
Make that a gift witch.
Bun looked around as Eleanor puttered about in the kitchen under the pretext of making tea. She wasn't sure what constituted tea in this madhouse, but she was going to make damned sure her friend took the first sip.
I am not going to poison you, you paranoid old flake.
Bun turned sharply to glare at the other woman, who simply raised her eyebrows until they were just beneath that awful turban she wore. “I am not paranoid. I'm just practical. And it's rude to project your thoughts without permission like that.”
“Can I help it if you're a snoop?”? Eleanor carried the tea pot and two mugs to the table where Bun sat, setting them down without grace as she eased into the chair across the table. “Damned telepathy. You never could keep your head out of other people's business.”
“I didn't come here to argue with you,” Bun said tiredly.
“No, you came to get cured-which, I might add, I did. And you're welcome.” Eleanor poured herself a large cup of tea and, with a sly expression, downed a huge gulp. “Safe enough for a baby,” she said, pushing a mug in front of Bun. When Bun hesitated, she laughed. “I'm not going to serve you, Princess Grace. You can pour your own damned tea.”
With a sigh, Bun poured herself a full mug of tea. It steamed in her cup, smelling of lavender and vanilla, fresh from the garden. She had to admit, as she sipped slowly, Eleanor always made a great pot of tea. “Thank you,” she said, a bit belatedly. Whether it was for the tea or the knitting needles to the base of her skull, she wasn't sure. But the more she drank, the calmer she felt. Calmer than she'd felt since she first felt his presence, back in Eastwick after all these years. “These children have no idea what they're in for,” she said, speaking into her cup.
“Idiots,” Eleanor agreed. She'd never been one for extraneous conversation. Bun was about to prompt her for more when she continued on her own. “That girl has more natural healing power than I've seen in ages. She's a savant-of the idiot variety, if you ask me.”
“Kat is a nice girl.”
“Kat is an idiot,” Eleanor said. She grabbed a banana out of the bowl on the table and began peeling it. “'Teach me about my gift,' she says, and then runs like a wet cat out the door the minute I try.” She bit into the banana with a sort of vicious satisfaction that reminded Bun why people had always been a little afraid of Eleanor. “The other one-the brunette-she's not scared of it. She's just--”
“An idiot?” Bun knew that according to Eleanor, anyone who wasn't her was either an idiot, evil, or inconsequential. Her latent misanthropy might be mildly amusing on a good day; today, it was downright distracting. “Listen to me, these girls are getting in deeper by the day. He's got his hooks in them, and we've got to help them.”
Eleanor sighed dramatically. Back in the old days, Eleanor had been so much more outgoing. Now she seemed relish her eccentricity like a miser loved his gold. She rolled in it like jelly, all gooey and sweet and oddly repulsive.
“Eleanor, he's not going to be so easy to fight this time.”
“You called that easy?” The bitterness in Eleanor's tone was undeniable.
Bun held her tongue. They had both lost so much, sacrificed so much, back then. It had been necessary. It had been unavoidable.
But nobody could say for a minute that it had been easy.
“No,” she whispered. “No, it wasn't easy at all. But he's stronger. I saw him. He doesn't look a day older than he did when we--” She hesitated. The words still felt harsh on her tongue, unnatural and wrong.
“When we killed him? Don't mince words, Bun. Coy doesn't suit you.” Eleanor was pouring them both another cup of tea.
“I'm not being coy. He almost killed me. He disoriented me, got to me before I even knew what hit me.”
“Shields for shit,” Eleanor muttered.
“My shields are excellent, and you know it.” Bun shivered, remembering the feel of the ants crawling on her flesh, each tiny creature burning into her skin, needles of fire piercing into her. “He blasted right through.”
“Mine are good.” Eleanor's eyes flitted to the sigil she'd carved in power spots around the house. It was the same ward both women had tattooed on their ankles, the same one Bun had scribbled over and over on a legal pad in the hospital.
The one that had spontaneously burst into flames while she slept.
“What about the other one? The Torkaletti girl?”
Bun looked up from her own thoughts, surprised that Eleanor even knew about Roxie. “She's definitely embracing her powers. Last week, she had a vision that saved her friend from being burned alive. Joanna Frenkle. She's a reporter,” Bun explained. “Pissed off a minister, and he tried to burn her alive.”
“Jeeze, can't these creeps come up with anything new? Burning witches is so seventeenth century.”
“Everything isn't a joke, Eleanor. These girls are fairly leaking power everywhere they go, and he's not going to let them walk away with it.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes. “And let me guess. Not a single one of them is smart enough to be suspicious.”
Bun couldn't help smiling gently. “No more suspicious than we were.”
“It was a simpler time.”
“We were just as clueless, and you know it. Face it, none of the three of us had ever even dreamed of the kind of life he gave us. And if things hadn't gone--”
“To hell in a handbasket?”
Bun nodded. “Who knows where we'd have ended up.”
Eleanor closed her eyes. For a moment, she looked the age that Bun felt. Twenty years was a long time, and now they were a sister short. Bun felt a pang in her heart for their lost one, a pain so deep she barely recognized it as pain anymore. Without a word, Eleanor reached out for her hand and held it for a long while. “We're gonna have to train these girls up, if they're going to be any use to us at all,” she said finally.
“Are we up to it?”
“We have to be,” Eleanor said plainly. “Because there is no way I'm letting that bastard run amok in this town again.”
“Agreed.”
It was a dark silence that followed, one full of memories neither woman felt particularly inclined to verbalize in the moment. And then Eleanor was up, clearing the mugs and putting them to soak in the sink. “Okay, enough strolling down Memory Lane. You take yours, the blonde, and get her as up to speed as you can. I'll try to knock some sense into Florence Nightenshade, and we'll split Lois Lane between us.”
Bun nodded, drawing in a hard breath. “I don't know if I'm up to this,” she added under her breath.
“Well, get up to it,” her friend said, a look of determination flashing on her eloquent features. “Because I sure as hell bet Darryl Van Horne did not come here to play.”
“No,” Bun said. She was sure as hell he hadn't come here to play. “We're not playing, either,” she said.
Eleanor wiped off the table, then turned back to open a cupboard door just above the refrigerator. She pulled out her copy of the Book.
“You keep it in the kitchen?”
This got her a pair of rolled eyes and a snort. “You tell me what place is safer in this house?”
“Point taken.”
The Book was heavy-she'd added to it over the years, Bun could tell. Opening the heavy leather cover, Eleanor looked at her with a dread determination in her eyes. Bun knew from that moment forward, nobody was playing anything at all.
“So,” Eleanor said as she flipped the pages. “It's time to figure out how to kill a demon...again.”
The End