twicetoldfandom stories
Yay! The Twice Told stories are up! Seriously, you need to check them out; it's an awesome, awesome idea, and there are lots of good stories.
Mine:
TITLE: Sometimes the Truth is Worse
RATING: PG-13
FANDOM: BtVS/AtS
PAIRING: Buffy/Faith, Buffy/Angel, Faith/Angel
SPOILERS/TIMELINE: Post-“Chosen” & “Not Fade Away”
SUMMARY: There aren’t a lot of things they both care about anymore.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Thanks so much to madcap_shiny for the great beta.
PROMPT: Written for the 1st round of twicetoldfandom. This was my prompt.
Tell me about heaven.
***
Corkscrew twists of tree branches, licorice-dark with black bark and absence of moonlight, curl around them. They snag on their clothing, catch their hair. Scrape their faces, until the pale skin is red and angry.
Can’t be much more than a couple hundred feet, Faith says. Her eyes are as dark as the woods surrounding them, and her wine mouth is tightened into a determined line.
Buffy doesn’t believe her. They’ve been tracking for miles, walking for so long that her body aches. Her legs, her lungs. Her hand curled into a fist around her weapon. They’ve lost their quarry, and they could walk forever. Off the face of the earth. Into the mouth of hell.
***
Faith insists that, because they are in Paris, they have to try absinthe. Buffy doesn’t know what one has to do with another, but Faith shows up at her door one night waving a wickedly green bottle.
***
There aren’t a lot of things they both care about anymore. Dawn, even though she’s too grown up to call very often. Angel, even though he’s nearly ten years dead.
Killing evil things.
***
Buffy is spinning. She doesn’t like the taste of the liquor, but Faith insisted and Faith is generally not worth arguing with. Her world - her green, sparkling world - will not stop spinning.
Faith is drunk, too, which makes her like a cat in heat: languid and slowly graceful and ready to fuck anything that moves. Buffy can’t remember how, but somehow Faith lured Buffy into her bedroom, and now the two of them are tangled up in the sweaty, licorice-scented sheets. Buffy can’t move; she can only lie still and watch the room spin. Faith rolls around the bed and arches against Buffy as though sensation is currency.
Fuck, B, Faith says. She says that a lot, especially when she’s been drinking. Buffy never saw her drunk until they failed to find Angel or anybody at all among the rubble in LA half a lifetime ago. Sometimes, Buffy wonders if Faith loves Angel more.
She doesn’t know which side of the equation makes her angrier.
***
Buffy remembers a conversation about being built to hunt. She was young and pretty and had friends and family and a wonderful man, all of whom loved her. She got a new manicure every week, and she always wore the newest fashions. Faith was loud and dirty and always popping up at inconvenient times, the younger sister you’re embarrassed to let around your friends, fearing that she’ll either humiliate you or seduce them.
We were built for this, B. If you’re not enjoying it, you’re doing something wrong.
Used to be, Faith dragged her from her bright life and into the dark world they shared despite their differences. Now, Buffy does the dragging. She does not remember the last night she didn’t patrol, with Faith or without her.
She’s stopped wearing makeup, and - aside from Faith, and Dawn at holidays - doesn’t see much of anybody for longer than it takes to rescue them. She trains for a few hours in the morning, and then she sleeps the rest of the day.
***
She doesn’t know what kind of demon it is, and she doesn’t care. She has a few books - those kinds of books - but she’s more or less stopped using them. You’ll be surprised how many things decapitation or a stake through the heart will kill.
The nameless thing trampled through a really lousy bar like a bull in a china shop, if the bull were really into tearing the hearts out of china shop patrons. Faith lagged behind Buffy on tearing after it because she stopped to count the dead. Running after Buffy, Faith tried some logical tactics: Stop. Wait. We should have a plan- but Buffy didn’t listen, simply plowed after the swath of destruction until it tapered out, covered by a dense tangle of forest on the very edge of town.
***
B, Faith says. She is writhing against the sheets, against Buffy, like she’s trying to understand the way a mermaid moves. B, tell me about heaven.
Buffy doesn’t remember ever telling Faith about going to heaven instead of hell. Maybe Angel told her, she thinks, but then thinks that if Angel was good at anything it was keeping secrets, so she herself must have let it slip. Lost it without even noticing, like a breath or a tear.
I want to know what it’s like, Faith insists. Her voice is a husky whine.
You’ll find out for yourself, Buffy says. Rather, she used to say, until the day that she realized Faith might take her consolation as instructions. Now she usually says nothing, or No. Sometimes, It doesn’t exist. I was dreaming.
***
The forest keeps on coming. It’s been nearly three hours. Faith continues trekking as though she does not feel the wear, but Buffy is tired. She doesn’t see the point in chasing nothing. She wants a sure kill.
Faith, let’s go.
Faith turns to look at her. Her face is calm and she’s barely sweating.
Just a little further, she says, and then she turns and keeps walking into the dark heart of the woods.
***
Tell me about heaven.
Buffy closes her eyes, but that doesn’t stop the spinning.
It’s just like this, she says.
Faith smiles, and her perpetual motion rocks itself to still.
Buffy opens her eyes and watches the ceiling spin into eternity. She doesn’t know when Faith lost the ability to recognize her lies, but it makes her sad.
TITLE: Foul
RATING: PG
FANDOM: Bones
PAIRING: Brennan/Booth, non-shippy
SUMMARY: “Bones is . . . very literal.”
PROMPT: Written for the first twicetoldfandom ficathon. This was my prompt.
“I need you to tell me about this baseball thing.”
Booth looks pleased, which is frankly not the reaction Brennan was expecting.
“That’s a good thing to know about, Bones. It’s our national pastime.”
Brennan frowns. “Okay . . . You know, Booth, Americans didn’t exactly invent-”
“But we made it our own! Just . . . let’s be nice to America, okay? All right. Now, here’s the basics: there are nine men to a team. The players are divided into the infield team and the outfield team, which sounds complicated, but it’s not. Actually, it’s a little complicated-there can be a lot of math involved, with each player’s RBI and . . . you know, that can only be an incentive for you, huh, Bones? You can take a calculator to the game.”
Brennan shifts her gaze, as though she suspects someone is eavesdropping on their conversation.
“Booth, I’m not sure how comfortable I’d be using a calculator-”
Booth rolls his eyes. “Right. You can probably do it all in your head.”
A smile blooms over Brennan’s face. “Well . . . not all of it . . . I mean, isn’t the point, you know, the physicality of it?”
Booth smiles and claps his hands for emphasis. “That’s right, Bones! That’s the spirit.”
“Keep explaining this to me. I’m interested.”
“Great! Okay, there are nine innings. Innings are broken up into two halves so that each team gets a chance to play with the same odds. In baseball, the defense always has the ball, which is different from most other sports - but it’s an American thing to do, Bones, rooting for the underdog, giving the little guy a hand - and-”
Brennan blinks. “What are you talking about?”
“. . . baseball. You know, guys with bats and tight pants-”
“You think I don’t know what baseball is?”
Booth is dumbfounded. “But . . . you asked . . .”
“No! I want to know about that thing with the bases, how that works.”
Booth stares, silent, until Brennan elaborates.
“Like . . . Hodgins said this morning that Zack had never gotten to second base, and I know they weren’t talking about, you know, the actual sport, but the nuances of the analogy are lost on me-”
The color blanches from Booth’s face and he quietly, quickly, leaves the room.
Brennan hurries after him.
“But Booth-”
He doesn’t even turn; it’s possible that he picks up the pace a bit.
“No! Not-not in a million . . . you know what, not ever!” His voice falls to a low grumble, but Brennan - with the fabulous acoustics of the MedicoLegal lab - can still hear him. “Geez, you think you can have one normal conversation with a person, just one . . . always bites you, always . . .”
Brennan sighs and lets him go. Maybe it’s better that she doesn’t understand these things.