FIC! Be afraid, be very afraid....
This is something which can either be read as a standalone, or a prologue.... It's s'posed to be a prologue, but I have the concentration and staying power of a gnat.
As becomes pretty obvious, it's set post-Chosen, when Buffy is "enjoying" her freedom. And there is no way it can be rated higher than PG-13.
Warnings: Death/grief, alcoholism (just this chapter), graphic violence (upcoming)
The blue pill opens your eyes;
Is there a better way?
A new religion prescribed
To those without the faith
The hero holding a knife,
And blood is not enough.
Is it too late to go back?
Is it too late to go?
She was in a pub.
Well, at least, she thought she was in a pub.
She should really ask.
Apparently, she was in a pub.
Weird.
She’d never had that much experience with ‘pubs’ before. Well, not British ones, anyway. Still, this one stank of smoke and booze, just like the ones back home. The smell was quite nice actually, now that she thought about it: it was all warm, and comforting, and … homey. It wasn’t just the smell either. There was homey wood, which was probably veneered, and a homey carpet with a homey faded pattern. OK, so the homey pub was anything like her actual home, but for a home away from home it wasn’t half bad.
She should ask where she was, so that she could come back again. All she knew was that the place was called “The Red Lion”. Or “The Lion’s Head”. Or possibly “The King’s Head”. Though it couldn’t be the third one, because weren’t kings supposed to be evil, and all oppressy? No one there seemed to be oppressed and unhappy, though, and weren’t they ruled by a queen?
They were all looking at her a little funny, she realised. Probably wasn’t to do with them being ruled by a queen. Probably to do with the “Am I in a pub?” question earlier.
Who knew that Londoners were so mean? She couldn’t even ask a simple question! They were almost as bad as her friends. Any minute now, they’d be getting off their barstools, looking at her seriously, voices full of it, asking her what she wanted to do with her life, and wouldn’t it be exciting, being able to go wherever she wanted?
Of course, Dawnie had to go to school somewhere, and she had to get a job, but otherwise, you know, the world was her oyster.
Given the current situation, the speech’d probably keep going, and they’d move on to telling her that alcohol is bad, and pull out their matching “Alcohol is Bad” banners, delighting in showing them to her. Before hitting her over the head with them.
Of course, that would be followed by them force-feeding Kennedy down her throat, complete with an endless babble, in a sickly voice, saying “It’d be great if you guys could get along. Really. Kennedy’s trying to work on her ego the size of Mount Etna, and she’s really starting to get over the loss of her boots back in Sunnydale. And, by the way, don’t you think that it’s a bit self-centred saying that your loss was bigger than hers? I mean, come on, Buffy, those boots were expensive. She won’t be able to afford another pair until at least five hours of her Slayer-salary comes through.”
Not that it would end there. Giles would have to have his say: look at her earnestly and tell her that of course she deserved a Slayer-salary to cover her and Dawn travelling for a bit … but surely she realised it wasn’t healthy for her not to earn her money.
Because the things he did for his money were so much more worthwhile. You had to have someone to dump things on you, otherwise nothing would get dumped, and then where would you be?
She closed her eyes, battling the start of her headache. She wasn’t supposed to be thinking about them. She was just supposed to be enjoying her weird beer in the weird pub and maybe looking at the weird patterns on the carpet. That was a bit hard, though, because the stupid barman kept looking at her as if she was an idiot, and the guy next to her kept trying to come on to her, but forgetting that he’d already tried about an hour ago … and another time before that. If he said, “Yer not from raahnd ‘ere, are yer, daahlin’?” in that stupid accent one more time, she knew she was gonna break something. Screw the homey pub.
Looking around angrily, she realised that the homey pub wasn’t that homey anymore. The charm was quickly fading, as quickly as the artificial warmth was decaying.
She drew herself in to battle the rising cold. She really just wanted to go to sleep.
She got kicked out later. The guy had said it was well past closing time, anyway. At least, she thought he had. The cold stickiness of the bar, and the stale, corroding smell had chased her out much more than anything he’d said.
She didn’t want to go home yet. There was no point. And there were no trains. Besides, the October air was good for her pounding headache.
She shivered as a gust of wind went over her, and swirled some leaves at her feet. Breathing in the wind, she smiled, eyes closed, as her nose began to tingle. This was nice. She’d never had her nose tingle from inner cold before. It was new. A novelty.
That was what she searched for, these days: novelty. Something that she could find out on her own. Judge with her own judgement, instead of anyone else’s. Independent thought and an independent life. That was the idea, anyway.
Bumming around Europe and Asia had been invigorating. She’d never been away from California, and had never realised how sanitised it was. Away from it, she’d been able to live, free from petty rules and her own petty feelings, and it had changed her.
Not that she hadn’t changed before. Sunnydale had already taken a large chunk of something.
Before she’d gone, she hadn’t been able to talk to her friends. Every time they’d opened their mouths, she had felt anger rise within her, ricocheting into frustration - and she’d had no idea where it had come from. She’d known that she was still annoyed with them, for kicking her out of the house, and never bothering to apologise afterwards. And she’d known that seven years with the same three people was often too much for anyone.
But she hadn’t known how much she felt it, and how much her resentment had been twisting inside of her. She could still feel a twinge of it now, actually, the sickening cold-burn. Although, that could just be the whiskey from earlier.
She sat down on a wall, willing the moment to pass. The stone beneath her was cracked and wobbly, and some branches of an overgrown bush were digging into her back. Her coat was completely useless.
She revelled as she shivered.
In the few weeks that she had been in England, she had quickly accepted the cold, as she had accepted her feelings. She knew she couldn’t change them, in the same way that she couldn’t change the weather. There was no use in trying, either. Nothing good came from that.
So she knew that she was angry with her friends. It was pretty obvious. Even as she walked it was playing through her system, making her fingers tingle in a way that was wholly different to the cold. The rage was futile, though, because she knew that trying to talk things through with them would not help.
They refused to believe that they ever had problems. Refused to see. So she’d done the only thing she could, and gotten away from them. Now, she would just have to move on. Get over it. The feelings between them all had been used up, possibly sucked out by the Hellmouth (could she blame that for everything?), and it was likely that there was nothing more that she could do.
Especially when Giles did things like deciding that she and Dawn must’ve had enough of Nepal, making it time for them to come back to London.
She rubbed her temples, refusing to dwell on her bitterness anymore. She looked to the sky, and was disappointed to find the stars blocked out by civilisation.
“Hello, Summers’ Res…. I mean, 740 22873?”
“Dawn, it’s me.”
“Buffy! Where are you? It’s, like, six in the morning!”
“Sorry. I just … felt like a walk.”
“You got drunk again, didn’t you?”
“I wouldn’t call it drunk exactly…. Besides, I’m totally sober now, and the hangover’s … much better than it was a couple of hours ago.”
“Buffy. You can’t keep doing this.”
“I know, I know. Can one of you guys pick me up? … I would get the train, but my ticket was only for yesterday, and you know how lame I am with the changing… And, I kinda … spent all-”
“Where are you?”
“Um, outside some subway-”
“Tube.”
“-tube station called ‘Whitechapel’. Hey, pretty-”
“God, Buffy! Do you have any idea where you are?”
“What d’you mean?”
“And you’ve been walking around…on your own…all night? Buffy, you can’t keep doing this…I mean, one day…I’m trying to understand, really I am…but you’re not invincible, Buffy. You’re not….”
“Okay, Dawnie. Calm down.”
“I know. Sorry. You’re s’posed to be the older sister, not me. I just need to chill out.”
“Dawn….”
“No. It’s fine. Me and Andrew … we’ll get a taxi. Just don’t move. And, please, just keep your phone out of sight.”
“Okay. Thanks,-”
There's no one here,
And people everywhere, you're all alone.
-Queens of the Stoneage, Better Living Through Chemistry
[Chapter 1]
As becomes pretty obvious, it's set post-Chosen, when Buffy is "enjoying" her freedom. And there is no way it can be rated higher than PG-13.
Warnings: Death/grief, alcoholism (just this chapter), graphic violence (upcoming)
The blue pill opens your eyes;
Is there a better way?
A new religion prescribed
To those without the faith
The hero holding a knife,
And blood is not enough.
Is it too late to go back?
Is it too late to go?
She was in a pub.
Well, at least, she thought she was in a pub.
She should really ask.
Apparently, she was in a pub.
Weird.
She’d never had that much experience with ‘pubs’ before. Well, not British ones, anyway. Still, this one stank of smoke and booze, just like the ones back home. The smell was quite nice actually, now that she thought about it: it was all warm, and comforting, and … homey. It wasn’t just the smell either. There was homey wood, which was probably veneered, and a homey carpet with a homey faded pattern. OK, so the homey pub was anything like her actual home, but for a home away from home it wasn’t half bad.
She should ask where she was, so that she could come back again. All she knew was that the place was called “The Red Lion”. Or “The Lion’s Head”. Or possibly “The King’s Head”. Though it couldn’t be the third one, because weren’t kings supposed to be evil, and all oppressy? No one there seemed to be oppressed and unhappy, though, and weren’t they ruled by a queen?
They were all looking at her a little funny, she realised. Probably wasn’t to do with them being ruled by a queen. Probably to do with the “Am I in a pub?” question earlier.
Who knew that Londoners were so mean? She couldn’t even ask a simple question! They were almost as bad as her friends. Any minute now, they’d be getting off their barstools, looking at her seriously, voices full of it, asking her what she wanted to do with her life, and wouldn’t it be exciting, being able to go wherever she wanted?
Of course, Dawnie had to go to school somewhere, and she had to get a job, but otherwise, you know, the world was her oyster.
Given the current situation, the speech’d probably keep going, and they’d move on to telling her that alcohol is bad, and pull out their matching “Alcohol is Bad” banners, delighting in showing them to her. Before hitting her over the head with them.
Of course, that would be followed by them force-feeding Kennedy down her throat, complete with an endless babble, in a sickly voice, saying “It’d be great if you guys could get along. Really. Kennedy’s trying to work on her ego the size of Mount Etna, and she’s really starting to get over the loss of her boots back in Sunnydale. And, by the way, don’t you think that it’s a bit self-centred saying that your loss was bigger than hers? I mean, come on, Buffy, those boots were expensive. She won’t be able to afford another pair until at least five hours of her Slayer-salary comes through.”
Not that it would end there. Giles would have to have his say: look at her earnestly and tell her that of course she deserved a Slayer-salary to cover her and Dawn travelling for a bit … but surely she realised it wasn’t healthy for her not to earn her money.
Because the things he did for his money were so much more worthwhile. You had to have someone to dump things on you, otherwise nothing would get dumped, and then where would you be?
She closed her eyes, battling the start of her headache. She wasn’t supposed to be thinking about them. She was just supposed to be enjoying her weird beer in the weird pub and maybe looking at the weird patterns on the carpet. That was a bit hard, though, because the stupid barman kept looking at her as if she was an idiot, and the guy next to her kept trying to come on to her, but forgetting that he’d already tried about an hour ago … and another time before that. If he said, “Yer not from raahnd ‘ere, are yer, daahlin’?” in that stupid accent one more time, she knew she was gonna break something. Screw the homey pub.
Looking around angrily, she realised that the homey pub wasn’t that homey anymore. The charm was quickly fading, as quickly as the artificial warmth was decaying.
She drew herself in to battle the rising cold. She really just wanted to go to sleep.
She got kicked out later. The guy had said it was well past closing time, anyway. At least, she thought he had. The cold stickiness of the bar, and the stale, corroding smell had chased her out much more than anything he’d said.
She didn’t want to go home yet. There was no point. And there were no trains. Besides, the October air was good for her pounding headache.
She shivered as a gust of wind went over her, and swirled some leaves at her feet. Breathing in the wind, she smiled, eyes closed, as her nose began to tingle. This was nice. She’d never had her nose tingle from inner cold before. It was new. A novelty.
That was what she searched for, these days: novelty. Something that she could find out on her own. Judge with her own judgement, instead of anyone else’s. Independent thought and an independent life. That was the idea, anyway.
Bumming around Europe and Asia had been invigorating. She’d never been away from California, and had never realised how sanitised it was. Away from it, she’d been able to live, free from petty rules and her own petty feelings, and it had changed her.
Not that she hadn’t changed before. Sunnydale had already taken a large chunk of something.
Before she’d gone, she hadn’t been able to talk to her friends. Every time they’d opened their mouths, she had felt anger rise within her, ricocheting into frustration - and she’d had no idea where it had come from. She’d known that she was still annoyed with them, for kicking her out of the house, and never bothering to apologise afterwards. And she’d known that seven years with the same three people was often too much for anyone.
But she hadn’t known how much she felt it, and how much her resentment had been twisting inside of her. She could still feel a twinge of it now, actually, the sickening cold-burn. Although, that could just be the whiskey from earlier.
She sat down on a wall, willing the moment to pass. The stone beneath her was cracked and wobbly, and some branches of an overgrown bush were digging into her back. Her coat was completely useless.
She revelled as she shivered.
In the few weeks that she had been in England, she had quickly accepted the cold, as she had accepted her feelings. She knew she couldn’t change them, in the same way that she couldn’t change the weather. There was no use in trying, either. Nothing good came from that.
So she knew that she was angry with her friends. It was pretty obvious. Even as she walked it was playing through her system, making her fingers tingle in a way that was wholly different to the cold. The rage was futile, though, because she knew that trying to talk things through with them would not help.
They refused to believe that they ever had problems. Refused to see. So she’d done the only thing she could, and gotten away from them. Now, she would just have to move on. Get over it. The feelings between them all had been used up, possibly sucked out by the Hellmouth (could she blame that for everything?), and it was likely that there was nothing more that she could do.
Especially when Giles did things like deciding that she and Dawn must’ve had enough of Nepal, making it time for them to come back to London.
She rubbed her temples, refusing to dwell on her bitterness anymore. She looked to the sky, and was disappointed to find the stars blocked out by civilisation.
“Hello, Summers’ Res…. I mean, 740 22873?”
“Dawn, it’s me.”
“Buffy! Where are you? It’s, like, six in the morning!”
“Sorry. I just … felt like a walk.”
“You got drunk again, didn’t you?”
“I wouldn’t call it drunk exactly…. Besides, I’m totally sober now, and the hangover’s … much better than it was a couple of hours ago.”
“Buffy. You can’t keep doing this.”
“I know, I know. Can one of you guys pick me up? … I would get the train, but my ticket was only for yesterday, and you know how lame I am with the changing… And, I kinda … spent all-”
“Where are you?”
“Um, outside some subway-”
“Tube.”
“-tube station called ‘Whitechapel’. Hey, pretty-”
“God, Buffy! Do you have any idea where you are?”
“What d’you mean?”
“And you’ve been walking around…on your own…all night? Buffy, you can’t keep doing this…I mean, one day…I’m trying to understand, really I am…but you’re not invincible, Buffy. You’re not….”
“Okay, Dawnie. Calm down.”
“I know. Sorry. You’re s’posed to be the older sister, not me. I just need to chill out.”
“Dawn….”
“No. It’s fine. Me and Andrew … we’ll get a taxi. Just don’t move. And, please, just keep your phone out of sight.”
“Okay. Thanks,-”
There's no one here,
And people everywhere, you're all alone.
-Queens of the Stoneage, Better Living Through Chemistry
[Chapter 1]