Challenge #1: Bargaining Part One Fill-in-the-blank
Setting: the night before the Scoobies do the resurrection spell
Disclaimer: all is Joss's, naught is mine
Rating: R for language
And I Will Therefore Fix It
Willow doesn’t think she’ll ever go to sleep. It’s warm and cozy and Tara’s steady breathing is a lulling invitation, but Will’s mind is ticking through lists and scenarios for tomorrow: Get all the Scoobies on board, check. Make sure Dawn and Spike are keeping each other busy, check. Sacrifice the--get the last ingredient for the spell. She’ll have to get that tomorrow afternoon, it’s got to be--it’s got to be fresh.
She takes a deep breath, tries to meditate a little to calm down. She needs to be rested to make it through the trials. (The pictures and descriptions she’s found are vague but ooky.) She slows her breathing, tries to imagine her lungs filling up with warm white light, and
“Did you say the bunny died?” someone says in her ear.
Will looks around. She’s standing in a village now, all the houses are brightly colored and much too small, and her mother is standing next to her.
Oh. I guess I DID go to sleep.
“What?” she says to her mom.
“I didn’t know you even had a bunny. I thought you had a cat. Wait, is that some sort of euphemism for being pregnant?”
“What--no, I--“
“Don’t you think that would be rushing it a little, dear? I mean, I am fully behind the Heather-has-two-mommies concept. God knows I have been supportive, I sent an enormous check to PFLAG and I’m sure I’ll make it to a meeting at some point. But really, if you two are going to be taking the turkey-baster route, don’t you want to get your doctorate first?”
Will looks at her mom unbelievingly and the last little scraps of knowing it’s a dream fall in a glittery circle around her, and she starts to explain. She expects it to come out all calm and cute and Willowesque like always but it doesn’t, it’s angry.
“Mom. There is no bunny. BUFFY is dead. Buffy. My best friend for the last five years BUFFY the center of everything that I do BUFFY the girl I am the fucking SIDEKICK of, BUFFY!!!”
“I could have sworn you had a cat,” her mother says, and walks off, shaking her head.
“Did you call me?” says a voice behind Willow.
Will whips around and gasps in joy and guilt. “Buffy--I didn’t mean--I’m so glad-“ and then she really looks at the girl in front of her. “Oh,” she says wearily. “You’re the Bot.”
“I am the new improved Buffy, yes,” the Bot says, with a perky head tilt. “I am much more dependably pleasant, and you get to tell me what to do. Would you please improve my fighting skills and update my homing device and remove my disturbing crush on Spike and tell me what to do?”
“I never wanted,” Will starts, “I don’t--hey. You have pigtails and a gingham dress and a picnic basket. I didn’t program you to be Red Riding Hood Buffy.”
“She’s not,” Xander says, and Will’s not surprised; Xander’s always been there. Best friend since forever, he’ll help and unconfuse her, but he just smiles and says, “I think she’s Dorothy. I think we have a yellow brick roadtrip ahead of us, a little L. Frank Kerouac.”
“But she’s not even a person!” Will says. “I should get to be Dorothy! I did all the reading.”
“Oh, you never get to be the main character,” the Bot chirps at her. “You’re far too smart and not pretty enough.”
“Speaking of smart,” Xander says, “could you cram some geometry into my head, just open it up like the Bot’s and shove some in there? And could you carry me piggyback through English and Biology and Spanish, and can I come over to your house all the time when my parents are screaming and can you not mention the bruises please, and can I practice my pickup lines for Buffy on you and can you tell me what to do?”
“That’s too much. I can’t do it. I can’t fix everybody.”
“You have to,” he says, and does that irresistible tormented thing with his lip. “I have a plaque. It says, ‘Willow tells me what to do.’ It’s got glitter.”
“And sequins. And feathers,” says the Bot. “It’s very pretty.”
Willow sighs at her. “Hey,” she says, cheering up a bit, “is Toto in the basket? I love Toto. Can I see him? Who gets to be Toto?”
Xander leans over her from behind, whispers hateful in her ear, “I think we all take turns being Buffy’s lapdog.”
“Alexander Harris!” she says, horrified.
“I didn’t say it,” he says, “you did.”
“I would never. I’m very seldom naughty.”
“Toto’s not in here, anyway,” says the Bot. “I think it’s just a chunk of the other, crankier Buffy. It’s starting to smell bad.”
“Oh god,” Willow says.
“If you bring her back, and she still smells bad and pieces are dropping off her, can I be her again instead?” the Bot says, and smiles hopefully.
“Oh. God. I hadn’t thought of that. This is all too much.”
“You are all too much,” Giles says.
“Oh!” Will jumps. “It’s not--what it looks like. I can explain.”
“I sincerely doubt it,” Giles says. “Loitering about, plotting to raise the dead. Americans.” He takes the basket from the Bot, holds it up to his face and glares at it. “And you, Buffy,” he says to the basket, which is beginning to drip something green, “I expected better of you. A slayer must have tiptop hygiene at all times, and this reeking decomposition is simply unacceptable.”
“You’re so mean to her! You always were,” Will says. “And now you’re leaving, and you’re the only other one with enormous squishy frontal lobes, and I need you!”
Giles shrugs and sings, “I’d be definitely staying, just to keep you all from straying, if I only had a brain.”
“Oh, wait!” he adds. “I do,” and pulls out a tarot card from his vest pocket. It’s the one from their spell that roused the first slayer, with a big cartoony brain on it.
“Ooh, that is a good one,” Will says.
“Yeah, nice fat amygdala you got there, British man,” Xander says, and Will blinks at him.
“What? I have a vocabulary sometimes. With words in it.” He smiles at her, and sings, “I could…um. If I only had…dammit. I slept through chorus class. And poetry. I think my point is, I could take a lot of the burden off you if I stopped pretending to be stupid, and I’d feel like doing that, if I only had a heart.”
He fumbles in his jeans pocket. “Well, whaddya know,” he says, and pulls out his heart card, but it’s creased and frayed. “I wasn’t paying attention and put it through the laundry,” he says. “But, hey, it smells really good now. And zero static cling.”
Will and Xander and Giles all turn to look at the Bot, who beams at them and opens her glossy rosebud mouth, and-
“DON’T SING!” they all yell.
She pouts but sticks a hand down the front of her dress and pulls out a card from somewhere in her BotBra. “If I only had the nerve,” she recites and shows them her hand card, with the nerves outlined in blue like a circuitry diagram. “I’ve got nerves,” she says sadly, “but it doesn’t count if they’re really wires, does it?”
“No,” Will says, and digs into the pocket of the black dress swirling around her, and she thinks she feels the edges of her spirit card but when she brings her hand out it’s empty. And it’s green.
“NO!” she says. “I am NOT going to be the Wicked Witch! It’s cliched, and it’s insulting to the Craft, and I am not wicked. Not at all. I’m seldom--"
“Yeah, seldom ever naughty, we know,” Xander says. “Except in formal wear. And may I just say that’s a lovely dress you’re wearing. And you have to do it, it’s the only part left.”
“It’s because you got here late,” says the Bot. “If you’d been here on time you could have been Cowboy Guy.”
“Would someone kindly explain why there’s a cowboy in the Wizard of Oz?” Giles says. “Honestly, modern drama, it’s just a mishmash of tired tropes and nudity, one can hardly-“
“Will you all please listen?” Willow yells. “I can’t do this! It’s too much for me alone, and--hey, where’s Tara? Why isn’t Tara here? She’d be Glinda, right? Tara? Baby? Where are you?”
She looks around at her friends but they’re not there anymore, she’s looking at Ripper and the hyena and the clanking Moloch-bot, and they all smile at her with long teeth and say together, “You’d better warn your sister.”
“What? I don’t even have a sister! TARA! Where’s--“
“You’d better warn your sister, ‘cause the house is coming down,” they chant, and she turns and runs, out of the village and heading for the woods but the wind is picking up, hair stinging in her eyes and she’ll never find Tara in time--
And then there’s a warm mouth on hers and she blinks half awake to find Tara kissing her out of her dream. “You’re here,” she mumbles.
“Right here, always, sweetie,” Tara says. “Was it bad? You were thrashing around and whimpering.”
“No, baby, just--don’t worry. I’m gonna fix it.”
She curls into Tara’s sweet shoulder, feels the dream slipping away in red nonsensical scraps, peaceful dreamless sleep washing in to replace it. Murmurs into Tara’s neck, “I’m gonna fix everybody.”
Disclaimer: all is Joss's, naught is mine
Rating: R for language
And I Will Therefore Fix It
Willow doesn’t think she’ll ever go to sleep. It’s warm and cozy and Tara’s steady breathing is a lulling invitation, but Will’s mind is ticking through lists and scenarios for tomorrow: Get all the Scoobies on board, check. Make sure Dawn and Spike are keeping each other busy, check. Sacrifice the--get the last ingredient for the spell. She’ll have to get that tomorrow afternoon, it’s got to be--it’s got to be fresh.
She takes a deep breath, tries to meditate a little to calm down. She needs to be rested to make it through the trials. (The pictures and descriptions she’s found are vague but ooky.) She slows her breathing, tries to imagine her lungs filling up with warm white light, and
“Did you say the bunny died?” someone says in her ear.
Will looks around. She’s standing in a village now, all the houses are brightly colored and much too small, and her mother is standing next to her.
Oh. I guess I DID go to sleep.
“What?” she says to her mom.
“I didn’t know you even had a bunny. I thought you had a cat. Wait, is that some sort of euphemism for being pregnant?”
“What--no, I--“
“Don’t you think that would be rushing it a little, dear? I mean, I am fully behind the Heather-has-two-mommies concept. God knows I have been supportive, I sent an enormous check to PFLAG and I’m sure I’ll make it to a meeting at some point. But really, if you two are going to be taking the turkey-baster route, don’t you want to get your doctorate first?”
Will looks at her mom unbelievingly and the last little scraps of knowing it’s a dream fall in a glittery circle around her, and she starts to explain. She expects it to come out all calm and cute and Willowesque like always but it doesn’t, it’s angry.
“Mom. There is no bunny. BUFFY is dead. Buffy. My best friend for the last five years BUFFY the center of everything that I do BUFFY the girl I am the fucking SIDEKICK of, BUFFY!!!”
“I could have sworn you had a cat,” her mother says, and walks off, shaking her head.
“Did you call me?” says a voice behind Willow.
Will whips around and gasps in joy and guilt. “Buffy--I didn’t mean--I’m so glad-“ and then she really looks at the girl in front of her. “Oh,” she says wearily. “You’re the Bot.”
“I am the new improved Buffy, yes,” the Bot says, with a perky head tilt. “I am much more dependably pleasant, and you get to tell me what to do. Would you please improve my fighting skills and update my homing device and remove my disturbing crush on Spike and tell me what to do?”
“I never wanted,” Will starts, “I don’t--hey. You have pigtails and a gingham dress and a picnic basket. I didn’t program you to be Red Riding Hood Buffy.”
“She’s not,” Xander says, and Will’s not surprised; Xander’s always been there. Best friend since forever, he’ll help and unconfuse her, but he just smiles and says, “I think she’s Dorothy. I think we have a yellow brick roadtrip ahead of us, a little L. Frank Kerouac.”
“But she’s not even a person!” Will says. “I should get to be Dorothy! I did all the reading.”
“Oh, you never get to be the main character,” the Bot chirps at her. “You’re far too smart and not pretty enough.”
“Speaking of smart,” Xander says, “could you cram some geometry into my head, just open it up like the Bot’s and shove some in there? And could you carry me piggyback through English and Biology and Spanish, and can I come over to your house all the time when my parents are screaming and can you not mention the bruises please, and can I practice my pickup lines for Buffy on you and can you tell me what to do?”
“That’s too much. I can’t do it. I can’t fix everybody.”
“You have to,” he says, and does that irresistible tormented thing with his lip. “I have a plaque. It says, ‘Willow tells me what to do.’ It’s got glitter.”
“And sequins. And feathers,” says the Bot. “It’s very pretty.”
Willow sighs at her. “Hey,” she says, cheering up a bit, “is Toto in the basket? I love Toto. Can I see him? Who gets to be Toto?”
Xander leans over her from behind, whispers hateful in her ear, “I think we all take turns being Buffy’s lapdog.”
“Alexander Harris!” she says, horrified.
“I didn’t say it,” he says, “you did.”
“I would never. I’m very seldom naughty.”
“Toto’s not in here, anyway,” says the Bot. “I think it’s just a chunk of the other, crankier Buffy. It’s starting to smell bad.”
“Oh god,” Willow says.
“If you bring her back, and she still smells bad and pieces are dropping off her, can I be her again instead?” the Bot says, and smiles hopefully.
“Oh. God. I hadn’t thought of that. This is all too much.”
“You are all too much,” Giles says.
“Oh!” Will jumps. “It’s not--what it looks like. I can explain.”
“I sincerely doubt it,” Giles says. “Loitering about, plotting to raise the dead. Americans.” He takes the basket from the Bot, holds it up to his face and glares at it. “And you, Buffy,” he says to the basket, which is beginning to drip something green, “I expected better of you. A slayer must have tiptop hygiene at all times, and this reeking decomposition is simply unacceptable.”
“You’re so mean to her! You always were,” Will says. “And now you’re leaving, and you’re the only other one with enormous squishy frontal lobes, and I need you!”
Giles shrugs and sings, “I’d be definitely staying, just to keep you all from straying, if I only had a brain.”
“Oh, wait!” he adds. “I do,” and pulls out a tarot card from his vest pocket. It’s the one from their spell that roused the first slayer, with a big cartoony brain on it.
“Ooh, that is a good one,” Will says.
“Yeah, nice fat amygdala you got there, British man,” Xander says, and Will blinks at him.
“What? I have a vocabulary sometimes. With words in it.” He smiles at her, and sings, “I could…um. If I only had…dammit. I slept through chorus class. And poetry. I think my point is, I could take a lot of the burden off you if I stopped pretending to be stupid, and I’d feel like doing that, if I only had a heart.”
He fumbles in his jeans pocket. “Well, whaddya know,” he says, and pulls out his heart card, but it’s creased and frayed. “I wasn’t paying attention and put it through the laundry,” he says. “But, hey, it smells really good now. And zero static cling.”
Will and Xander and Giles all turn to look at the Bot, who beams at them and opens her glossy rosebud mouth, and-
“DON’T SING!” they all yell.
She pouts but sticks a hand down the front of her dress and pulls out a card from somewhere in her BotBra. “If I only had the nerve,” she recites and shows them her hand card, with the nerves outlined in blue like a circuitry diagram. “I’ve got nerves,” she says sadly, “but it doesn’t count if they’re really wires, does it?”
“No,” Will says, and digs into the pocket of the black dress swirling around her, and she thinks she feels the edges of her spirit card but when she brings her hand out it’s empty. And it’s green.
“NO!” she says. “I am NOT going to be the Wicked Witch! It’s cliched, and it’s insulting to the Craft, and I am not wicked. Not at all. I’m seldom--"
“Yeah, seldom ever naughty, we know,” Xander says. “Except in formal wear. And may I just say that’s a lovely dress you’re wearing. And you have to do it, it’s the only part left.”
“It’s because you got here late,” says the Bot. “If you’d been here on time you could have been Cowboy Guy.”
“Would someone kindly explain why there’s a cowboy in the Wizard of Oz?” Giles says. “Honestly, modern drama, it’s just a mishmash of tired tropes and nudity, one can hardly-“
“Will you all please listen?” Willow yells. “I can’t do this! It’s too much for me alone, and--hey, where’s Tara? Why isn’t Tara here? She’d be Glinda, right? Tara? Baby? Where are you?”
She looks around at her friends but they’re not there anymore, she’s looking at Ripper and the hyena and the clanking Moloch-bot, and they all smile at her with long teeth and say together, “You’d better warn your sister.”
“What? I don’t even have a sister! TARA! Where’s--“
“You’d better warn your sister, ‘cause the house is coming down,” they chant, and she turns and runs, out of the village and heading for the woods but the wind is picking up, hair stinging in her eyes and she’ll never find Tara in time--
And then there’s a warm mouth on hers and she blinks half awake to find Tara kissing her out of her dream. “You’re here,” she mumbles.
“Right here, always, sweetie,” Tara says. “Was it bad? You were thrashing around and whimpering.”
“No, baby, just--don’t worry. I’m gonna fix it.”
She curls into Tara’s sweet shoulder, feels the dream slipping away in red nonsensical scraps, peaceful dreamless sleep washing in to replace it. Murmurs into Tara’s neck, “I’m gonna fix everybody.”