Wesley: We were fighting on opposite sides, but it was the same war. Fred: but you hated her…didn't you? Wesley: It's not always about holding hands.

'Shells'


Buffista Fic 2: They Said It Couldn't Be Done.

[NAFDA] Where the Buffistas let their fanfic creative juices flow. May contain erotica.


Anne W. - Feb 13, 2007 11:56:53 am PST #390 of 1103
The lost sheep grow teeth, forsake their lambs, and lie with the lions.

Many thanks, all! That was a fun one to play with.


Cass - Feb 14, 2007 9:19:51 pm PST #391 of 1103
Bob's learned to live with tragedy, but he knows that this tragedy is one that won't ever leave him or get better.

That was fun!

"No!" Jaye leaned forward, halfway across the table. "I mean, you actually have a soul? Really?"
Hee.


Anne W. - Feb 19, 2007 11:14:28 am PST #392 of 1103
The lost sheep grow teeth, forsake their lambs, and lie with the lions.

Another crossover. This time, I'm pulling "Friday Night Lights" into the Jossverse. Many thanks to SA for beta-reading this:

Tim knows exactly what he wants to do with the rest of his life. He's going to stay here in Texas, probably not all that far from Dillon. Yeah, that thing about going in on a ranch with Jason most likely ain't gonna happen now, but something else will fill its place. He's not exactly sure how it's all going to play out, but in his future, Jason is still there, somehow, and everything's pretty much okay. Tyra's there, too. So's Lyla. Maybe he'll settle down with one of the girls, maybe he won't. Maybe it'll be someone else--not a stranger, but one of the rally girls or maybe even one of the cheerleaders.

Or hell, maybe twenty years down, he'll still be stuck here with Billy in this rat-trap of a house, the two Riggins brothers, legendary drunks and whoring fuckups. That's fine, too. He can live with that. He can live with that just fine. He can go into town, go hang out at one of the bars around playoffs time, and people will see the State Championship ring on his finger and buy him drink after drink so he can go on forgetting what happened that one summer.

And in the end, that's all he wants. Going nowhere, nothing happening, and never being more than a few hours away from a comforting alcoholic haze.

He used to want something else, not too long ago. He wanted to get out of Dillon. He wanted to go somewhere where people wouldn't hear the name Riggins and immediately think trash. He was going to show that he was better than that, that he was better than his daddy, that he was better than Billy, that he was better than the rest of them.

Of course, that was before the short but jagged scar right above his collarbone. Most people think it's from when he fell off a bike and into a barbed-wire fence when he was twelve. Hell, Tim's told the story enough times that even he sometimes thinks it's true. He even has what seem like memories of the actual event. When he feels like bragging, he sometimes points out how close it is to some big old vein or something in his neck, and tells whoever's listening that he came real close to bleeding out, and woulda done so if his cousin hadn't been right there. He'll tell them that, and then he'll go off and get throwing-up, falling-down drunk, because that part of the story's just a little too close to the truth.

See, Tim has a cousin who made it big, and made it out of his crappy hometown. Not Dillon, no, just some other crap town in Oklahoma. From what he hears, it was a bigger jump out of there, but it's hard to tell. All he knows is that his dad used to talk about how his older sister got knocked up by some shit of an Okie and her life had pretty much gone down the crapper because of it. But he also said her kid--who was clearly nothing like his no-good daddy--was going places, even managing to get himself into law school.

Billy never liked those stories--Tim guessed they made him feel small--but for Tim, they were a lifeline. They showed him that there was a path out of there into something bigger and better. And for a little while, he would look at his report cards and dream that even though it was mostly just B's, his teachers were talking behind his back about how they'd never guess that Tim was a Riggins, and about how he'd be going places-- places that weren't Dillon. Hell, maybe he'd become a lawyer just like his cousin, and wouldn't that be something?

When Tim was twelve, this mythical cousin finally came for a visit. "It ain't fair that I got a couple of cousins I never met," he said, smiling at Tim and ruffling his hair. For some reason, Tim had imagined that he'd be all polished and city-proper like the lawyers on the TV shows, but Lindsey seemed ordinary enough. Flannel shirt, jeans, and a smile that marked him as a Riggins even though his last name was McDonald.

Tim grinned up at him and decided right then and there that Lindsey was his hero. He wasn't just someone who'd made it (continued...)


Anne W. - Feb 19, 2007 11:14:35 am PST #393 of 1103
The lost sheep grow teeth, forsake their lambs, and lie with the lions.

( continues...) good, he was a grownup who paid attention to Tim, and acted like Tim was worth something. Maybe later, he thought, he should have noticed Billy's wary glares, or how maybe Lindsey paid no attention to Billy and way too much to Tim.

The second day Lindsey was there, just before sunset, he slung an arm across Tim's shoulders. "C'mon cuz, let's you and me go for a walk while there's still light. Maybe you can show me that bike of yours, and I can tell you all sorts of boring stories about what it's like to be a lawyer."

"It's just a crappy old bike. Used to be Billy's, and it weren't even new then," Tim said automatically, but he smiled and let Lindsey lead him outside. "And your stories aren't boring."

Lindsey laughed and ruffled Tim's hair again. "C'mon. Let's go over there," he said, nodding towards a dirt road leading off from the highway.

"There's nothing over there," Tim protested.

"All the better for walking and talking." Lindsey set off at a brisk but easy pace as Tim rode alongside on his rusty old bike, wobbling from having to go so slow. "Actually, I kind of need your help with something, Tim. There's been a bit of trouble at work, and I need to stop it."

"What kind of trouble?" Tim navigated his bike around a rut. "The kind of stuff you see on TV?"

"Depends on what kind of programs you're watching. Anyhow, they've got the wrong people in charge. There's someone who got the job I wanted, and I want to get it back from him. Problem is, there are some people who really want to keep him there, and they'll do anything to stop me from getting to him."

There was a snap to Lindsey's voice that startled Tim, and he let his bike fall to the side, catching himself with his foot, so he was standing there, straddling the tilted over bike.

"How'm I supposed to help you get your job?" Tim had no idea how he was supposed to help. "And who are these people who're tryin' to stop you?"

Lindsey didn't answer at first. He was peering at the horizon, as if waiting for something.

"Sun's just down," he finally said. And then Lindsey grabbed Tim around the chest and pulled him off his bike. Tim squirmed and kicked, but Lindsey was so strong he might as well have been made of iron, and he didn't even flinch when one of Tim's heels cracked into his knee.

Tim was yelling, and Lindsey was shushing him as if he was a kid who'd just woken up from a nightmare, but the stone knife at Tim's throat wasn't any damn dream. The knife cut into his skin, and Tim went limp, as if all the strength had just poured right out of him.

Lindsey lowered Tim to the ground, and it was worse because he was trying to be nice and gentle to his little cousin. But there was nothing nice or gentle about the way Lindsey scooped up some of Tim's blood on his fingers and drew a strange and squiggly circle on the hard dirt of the road. Lindsey touched his bloody fingers to his lips and then stepped inside the circle he'd made with his cousin's blood.

Tim watched, on the verge of blacking out, as strange black marks began to form and swirl on Lindsey's arms.

He forced himself not to whimper as Lindsey crouched down next to him. Lindsey's elbows rested light on his knees, the stone knife nearly dangling in his hand, he was holding it so loosely. And then he shifted, and Tim's eyes went right to that knife, but Lindsey reached out with his other hand instead, and ruffled Tim's hair one last time.

"I'm sorry about this, Tim, real sorry, but you're blood kin, and that's something I need real bad." Then he smiled, sharp and cruel, and it was more real than any of the friendly smiles he'd shown before. Lindsey looked at the marks that were still painting themselves on his skin, then turned his arms over so Tim could get a real good look at the strange letters that almost but didn't quite mean something. "Good thing you're too young to have done any fooling around with the ladies. Maybe in a couple of years, though. Meantime, I got to seal this up so it works (continued...)


Anne W. - Feb 19, 2007 11:14:41 am PST #394 of 1103
The lost sheep grow teeth, forsake their lambs, and lie with the lions.

( continues...) the way it's supposed to."

Then, Lindsey nicked the tip of his finger with that damned knife, and touched it to the cut on Tim's neck, mixing blood with blood. He said a word that hurt to hear, and the wound pretty much stopped bleeding. Mostly. Anyhow, it stopped bleeding enough so that when Lindsey helped Tim back to the house and started spinning tales of bikes and barbed wire, there was no talk of taking him to the hospital. Lindsey left the next morning. Tim didn't bother to say goodbye. In fact, he didn't say much of anything for another three days.

On the third day, he found a bottle of Wild Turkey under Billy's bed and he drank until he puked.

For a few years after that, he thought he could feel people watching him. It was like they were hunting him, sometimes, except when they found him, they always turned away again in disgust, as if he wasn't the one they were looking for. And when the eyes became too heavy on him, getting good and drunk made them seem less focused somehow.

Eventually, Tim began to think that maybe it was safer to be just another Riggins.

And by the time he was fourteen, and he felt a stab of pain just above his collarbone that meant that Lindsey was dead and the eyes would no longer be looking for Lindsey and finding Tim, he knew exactly what he wanted to do with his life.

He can't imagine wanting anything else.


Beverly - Feb 19, 2007 12:04:33 pm PST #395 of 1103
Days shrink and grow cold, sunlight through leaves is my song. Winter is long.

Oh Anne. Wow. Gave me shivers.


Deena - Feb 19, 2007 12:15:16 pm PST #396 of 1103
How are you me? You need to stop that. Only I can be me. ~Kara

Goodness. I don't know FNL, but that fit so well with Oklahoma and Lindsey. Seriously creepifying.


Anne W. - Feb 19, 2007 2:48:10 pm PST #397 of 1103
The lost sheep grow teeth, forsake their lambs, and lie with the lions.

Many thanks, you two!

(Deena, if you have a chance to check out Friday Night Lights, it's worth the time. It's absolutely wonderful. I don't even like football all that much, and I love the show beyond all reason.)


Beverly - Feb 19, 2007 3:09:04 pm PST #398 of 1103
Days shrink and grow cold, sunlight through leaves is my song. Winter is long.

I've only seen the most recent ep, and I got it. I don't even know the characters' names yet, and it made perfect sense to me.


Anne W. - Feb 19, 2007 4:16:25 pm PST #399 of 1103
The lost sheep grow teeth, forsake their lambs, and lie with the lions.

Yet another crossover fic (I had to write several for a fic exchange, and I'm cherry-picking my favorites for posting elsewhere). This one's a Doctor Who crossover featuring Nine.

He'd finally tracked the Cyrene Militia to London, 1960. An ill-advised restoration project at the British Museum had woken the extremist faction from their crystalline cells just as a charity soiree in the museum's Front Hall was in full swing.

What he hadn't been expecting was to show up two minutes after the Militia had begun to tear its way through the hall, reducing socialites and philanthropists to puddles of steaming liquid.

Another thing he hadn't been expecting was to see a primped and pampered fashion plate, complete with Balenciaga gown and trendy up-do, kick off her impractical shoes and then smash a chair into a plate glass display case. He stopped only long enough to watch her pull a bow and other weapons from the shattered case, and to see that she didn't even wince when she sliced her arm open on the broken glass.

The Doctor fought his way towards the Cyrene commander while the woman stood her ground and cleared a path for him as best she could. Blood from the gash in her arm flowed into the scarlet of her gown, and she fired arrow after arrow with terrifying accuracy until there were no more arrows to be fired. Even then she stood, dark eyes narrowed in fear and pride, the ornate knife she'd taken from the case at the ready.

It wasn't needed. The Doctor had reached the Militia's commander, and with him, the control needed to send the surviving zealots back into their jewelled prisons just before the commander could use the control to release the millions of other Cyrenes scattered throughout the galaxy.

Survivors continued to flee out into Russell Street, but the woman who had fought to buy him valuable time stayed rooted in place, staring up at one of the heraldic banners hanging from the balusters of the Great Staircase. He expected her to ask him something along the lines of "what were those things?" or even "what happened?" or "who are you?" but she just stood there with the most unexpected look on her face.

She looked happy. She was breathing hard, blood was still pouring down her arm, but she was happy. The Doctor thought it was a rather startled-looking happy, the kind of happiness you exhibit when you've all but forgotten what being happy was like.

"I appreciate the assist," he said, walking up to her, hands jammed into the pockets of his leather coat. She still seemed every inch the socialite, spoiled and useless, face hidden behind makeup so subtle you knew it must have cost the earth. But then there was the blood, and the bow, and an aura that could only be described as regal. "Where did you learn archery? I'm willing to bet you didn't learn that in finishing school."

It took a moment, but she finally looked around at him. "No, not finishing school," she said, her gaze both sly and fierce. Now that she'd registered his appearance, her eyes (still perfectly ringed with eyeliner and mascara) flickered up and down, taking in his appearance. "You... you aren't exactly from... here, are you?"

"Not at all!" he asserted, giving her his best roguish grin. Then, he pointed over to where the TARDIS waited beside the staircase, several yards to the side of the red and gold banner she'd been staring at a moment before.

Her shaped brows drew together in consternation. Obviously, she had been so taken in by the banner that she had completely failed to notice the blue police box standing right there in the British Museum's Great Hall.

"Come on, let's go inside and get that wound tended to."

He held the door open and he grinned in anticipation. He'd always enjoyed seeing peoples' faces as they saw the inside of the TARDIS for the first time.

She looked through the door of the TARDIS, and the Doctor's face fell a bit as, instead of the expected awe and disbelief, he saw only a sad smile on her face as the happiness of (continued...)