"Winter Waltz," PG, HL/BtVS
Another story for crossovers100.
Disclaimers: alysswolf, tarshaan, and wenchita tell me I didn't screw up too much. If I did, it is of course my fault, not theirs. Prompts provided by devohoneybee: delicate, tocsin, thorn. Rated: PG at worst. No moneys made, no infringement intended, all characters returned alive -- or dead -- as I found them. Enjoy.
Winter Waltz
Prompt # 33 -- Too Much
It's hardly the first time Sean's been called in to deal with someone rendered dangerous through insanity... but he's rarely been called in to deal with a woman who looks so deceptively delicate. Two of his strongest orderlies are down on the ground. One is curled protectively around a broken leg; the other is curled around his groin, broken arm wrapped above the unbroken one, trying to cradle softer, vital parts.
Four orderlies -- strong men, all of them, tested and tried by the war's leftovers and aftermaths -- circle her with cautious respect and the certainty that they'll win eventually.
She's tall for a woman, and slender almost to the point of gauntness, but she carries her heavy clothing (too heavy for the season, Sean notes) lightly. Dark, gleaming, well-kept hair and very pale skin and her eyes see far too much -- none of it what anyone else sees, he suspects. And she's dancing in the entry hall of his sanitarium: arms out to an invisible partner, humming to herself, dipping, swaying, and circling as if it were fifty years ago. It's an entirely decorous, utterly out-of-time waltz and her arms would keep a partner at least eighteen inches away.
Sean glances out the window and nods slowly. Darkness falls early in the winter; the sun is well down. So he does what needs doing, and steps forward.
"May I cut in, mademoiselle? My name is Sean Burns, and I would very much like the pleasure of this dance."
She smiles -- Mad as a hatter, Sean notes, not bothering with technical terms this once -- and takes his hand. "Certainly, sir." She curtsies without missing a beat of her dance, and her hands are light in his, resting lightly on his palm and his shoulder. Her palm is cold beyond the chill of the air, and a subtle twist of his hand places fingers against her wrist to confirm his suspicion: she has no pulse.
The vampire's smile is disturbingly sweet, appallingly serene. "What place is this? Such lovely lights, all shiny and new."
"This is my place," Sean says gently, feet following the steps without his attention; he's waltzed in easily nine countries over sixty years. "How did you come in?"
"Such nice men. They opened the door and invited me in. I looked cold, they said. Is it cold out?"
Sean nods and dances towards the stairs now, plans darting through his mind. "For some, yes. Are you cold?"
"Shoals of pretty fish.... Only on the inside," she agrees. "The outside's never warm, though. I could warm myself on you. Shiny, pretty sparks -- they'd be warm if they got out. Don't they hurt the fish?"
He eyes her, watching her gaze slide briefly into reality before returning to whatever focus let her see too much. "No, sparks burn, I'm afraid. Fish wouldn't like them. You wouldn’t either, I suspect."
"Oh, then they're like thorns. You have to bleed to grow roses. Didn't your mum tell you that?" she asked lightly, feet tapping out the beat of their waltz.
Sean can hear the muffled swearing of his injured men as they're moved clear. He's bought them enough time and he knows full well that there's nothing he can do for this poor woman. She might have been sane once. Perhaps. If so, it was probably in the days when she still had a pulse, and perhaps not then.
There's no telling how long she's been seeing past surfaces, or what she's had a chance to look through. Europe has provided too many battlefields in the last hundred years. A vampire might well have wandered across them, seen who knows what horrors. The constant wars have broken the minds of many a strong man; if she's older than she looks, she could have more than enough reason to have retreated from sanity. And for a woman who dances as if Victoria still sits on the throne, not all of those dangers necessarily lay in wait in places men consider battlefields....
"Oh, the tocsins blared," she says lightly, "and the shells fell. Mud everywhere, and no birds singing. Such naughty birds, not to sing dirges for the flowers." Sean realizes then that she can read some of what he's thinking; he prays fervently that she can only catch part of it.
She sways out away from him, fingers barely touching his shoulder and palm, her face twisting in pain. "Naughty boy. Such language. The bells rang for funerals, but it was for people, not the flowers. Silly people. Those weren't victories. They said such sweet things about me at the funeral, sweeter than they ever said to me. D'you think that's fair?"
His men think she's mad, Sean knows. He prefers that to letting them learn the truth. "No, dear lady. I don't think it's fair at all. Life so often isn't, I'm afraid." Their circled dance has led them back to the door and Sean sings along with their steps in Welsh, telling Hugh, "Open the doors, and move away."
The winter wind eddies around them with the doors' opening; leaves billow in across the threshold and a thin spray of snow. Sean lifts her hand to his mouth. "I wish I'd met you years ago, lovely lady. I'm sorry for your pain." Before she can say anything else, Sean continues implacably, "And as master of this place, I revoke your invitation herein."
She spins away from him, tugged by a force beyond that of the dance or her madness, and Sean can only watch her go, grateful that her movements look normal enough to pass for mere insanity. He closes the doors himself, bolts them against the night, and turns to his men. He has employees who need him, and patients, and he's old enough and responsible enough to know that the nearest farmers may yet need him, too.
Later tonight, when the wounded are tended and he's made his last rounds of the night, Sean will have to pull out the chain shirt he hasn't worn in two centuries and take up the sword he last practiced with two days ago.
The vampire is beautiful. She's gifted with sight too clear for her comfort or anyone else's. She's also stark, raving mad.
None of those facts, however, will keep her from hunger... or the hunt.
They won't stop him hunting, either. His oaths are to the living, not to the dead -- walking or otherwise. All Sean can do is wish that he had met her years ago, when she was mortal and he might have been able to help.
<><><><>
Sean never found her to kill her. A man found her in the woods, but their tracks led away to the road with no corpse left along its length. A willing mortal, an unknown hostage, another vampire, a guardian more besotted with her than with humanity...? It could be any of them, or some combination of them. He's only grateful that the local villages suffered no more than a stolen car and that some nights, when he's very tired, or perhaps very lucky, she dances in his dreams.
He never learned her name, either.
Disclaimers: alysswolf, tarshaan, and wenchita tell me I didn't screw up too much. If I did, it is of course my fault, not theirs. Prompts provided by devohoneybee: delicate, tocsin, thorn. Rated: PG at worst. No moneys made, no infringement intended, all characters returned alive -- or dead -- as I found them. Enjoy.
Winter Waltz
Prompt # 33 -- Too Much
It's hardly the first time Sean's been called in to deal with someone rendered dangerous through insanity... but he's rarely been called in to deal with a woman who looks so deceptively delicate. Two of his strongest orderlies are down on the ground. One is curled protectively around a broken leg; the other is curled around his groin, broken arm wrapped above the unbroken one, trying to cradle softer, vital parts.
Four orderlies -- strong men, all of them, tested and tried by the war's leftovers and aftermaths -- circle her with cautious respect and the certainty that they'll win eventually.
She's tall for a woman, and slender almost to the point of gauntness, but she carries her heavy clothing (too heavy for the season, Sean notes) lightly. Dark, gleaming, well-kept hair and very pale skin and her eyes see far too much -- none of it what anyone else sees, he suspects. And she's dancing in the entry hall of his sanitarium: arms out to an invisible partner, humming to herself, dipping, swaying, and circling as if it were fifty years ago. It's an entirely decorous, utterly out-of-time waltz and her arms would keep a partner at least eighteen inches away.
Sean glances out the window and nods slowly. Darkness falls early in the winter; the sun is well down. So he does what needs doing, and steps forward.
"May I cut in, mademoiselle? My name is Sean Burns, and I would very much like the pleasure of this dance."
She smiles -- Mad as a hatter, Sean notes, not bothering with technical terms this once -- and takes his hand. "Certainly, sir." She curtsies without missing a beat of her dance, and her hands are light in his, resting lightly on his palm and his shoulder. Her palm is cold beyond the chill of the air, and a subtle twist of his hand places fingers against her wrist to confirm his suspicion: she has no pulse.
The vampire's smile is disturbingly sweet, appallingly serene. "What place is this? Such lovely lights, all shiny and new."
"This is my place," Sean says gently, feet following the steps without his attention; he's waltzed in easily nine countries over sixty years. "How did you come in?"
"Such nice men. They opened the door and invited me in. I looked cold, they said. Is it cold out?"
Sean nods and dances towards the stairs now, plans darting through his mind. "For some, yes. Are you cold?"
"Shoals of pretty fish.... Only on the inside," she agrees. "The outside's never warm, though. I could warm myself on you. Shiny, pretty sparks -- they'd be warm if they got out. Don't they hurt the fish?"
He eyes her, watching her gaze slide briefly into reality before returning to whatever focus let her see too much. "No, sparks burn, I'm afraid. Fish wouldn't like them. You wouldn’t either, I suspect."
"Oh, then they're like thorns. You have to bleed to grow roses. Didn't your mum tell you that?" she asked lightly, feet tapping out the beat of their waltz.
Sean can hear the muffled swearing of his injured men as they're moved clear. He's bought them enough time and he knows full well that there's nothing he can do for this poor woman. She might have been sane once. Perhaps. If so, it was probably in the days when she still had a pulse, and perhaps not then.
There's no telling how long she's been seeing past surfaces, or what she's had a chance to look through. Europe has provided too many battlefields in the last hundred years. A vampire might well have wandered across them, seen who knows what horrors. The constant wars have broken the minds of many a strong man; if she's older than she looks, she could have more than enough reason to have retreated from sanity. And for a woman who dances as if Victoria still sits on the throne, not all of those dangers necessarily lay in wait in places men consider battlefields....
"Oh, the tocsins blared," she says lightly, "and the shells fell. Mud everywhere, and no birds singing. Such naughty birds, not to sing dirges for the flowers." Sean realizes then that she can read some of what he's thinking; he prays fervently that she can only catch part of it.
She sways out away from him, fingers barely touching his shoulder and palm, her face twisting in pain. "Naughty boy. Such language. The bells rang for funerals, but it was for people, not the flowers. Silly people. Those weren't victories. They said such sweet things about me at the funeral, sweeter than they ever said to me. D'you think that's fair?"
His men think she's mad, Sean knows. He prefers that to letting them learn the truth. "No, dear lady. I don't think it's fair at all. Life so often isn't, I'm afraid." Their circled dance has led them back to the door and Sean sings along with their steps in Welsh, telling Hugh, "Open the doors, and move away."
The winter wind eddies around them with the doors' opening; leaves billow in across the threshold and a thin spray of snow. Sean lifts her hand to his mouth. "I wish I'd met you years ago, lovely lady. I'm sorry for your pain." Before she can say anything else, Sean continues implacably, "And as master of this place, I revoke your invitation herein."
She spins away from him, tugged by a force beyond that of the dance or her madness, and Sean can only watch her go, grateful that her movements look normal enough to pass for mere insanity. He closes the doors himself, bolts them against the night, and turns to his men. He has employees who need him, and patients, and he's old enough and responsible enough to know that the nearest farmers may yet need him, too.
Later tonight, when the wounded are tended and he's made his last rounds of the night, Sean will have to pull out the chain shirt he hasn't worn in two centuries and take up the sword he last practiced with two days ago.
The vampire is beautiful. She's gifted with sight too clear for her comfort or anyone else's. She's also stark, raving mad.
None of those facts, however, will keep her from hunger... or the hunt.
They won't stop him hunting, either. His oaths are to the living, not to the dead -- walking or otherwise. All Sean can do is wish that he had met her years ago, when she was mortal and he might have been able to help.
<><><><>
Sean never found her to kill her. A man found her in the woods, but their tracks led away to the road with no corpse left along its length. A willing mortal, an unknown hostage, another vampire, a guardian more besotted with her than with humanity...? It could be any of them, or some combination of them. He's only grateful that the local villages suffered no more than a stolen car and that some nights, when he's very tired, or perhaps very lucky, she dances in his dreams.
He never learned her name, either.