5 Characters That Never Were The Slayer (Dwight) PG
Title: 5 Characters That Never Were The Slayer
Author: crackers4jenn
Pairing/Character: Dwight K. Schrute + different characters from different fandoms.
Rating: It's about as tame as a baby kitten. PG-ish.
Summary: I think the title says it all.
Spoilers: None!
Title: 5 Characters That Never Were The Slayer.
Summary: The title says it all, yo.
1. Lorelai Gilmore, Gilmore Girls.
"I'm just saying that maybe it should be, at the very least, thoroughly considered."
"Lorelai," Giles sighs, not for the first time. Though, like the previous others, it just gets ignored.
"One day, Rupert Giles, you're going to realize the brilliance that is my plan, and when you do, I will be sitting back, grapes being served by some meaty, rippled man-servant guy, and I just might not be in the mood to acknowledge your, what I'm sure will be, very long, very sincere apologies--"
"Are you perhaps nearing a point yet?"
Lorelai started to frown. "My point got smooshed to pieces by your unenthusiasm. It's a sad, smooshy point now."
"How terribly disconcerting."
"It was. And still is. Like Rosie O'Donnel joining The View. Or Katie Couric leaving The Today Show. Oh, or that other lady, what's-her-face, the one nobody ever liked, leaving The View and joining The Today Show. It's a disconcerting freak show, complete with a Musical Chairs of who's-who TV talk show hosts, and I'm sad, Giles, so terribly, terribly sad, that you were the smoosher-of-points that started it all."
Giles, somewhat ruffled, began to stand up and collect the scattered research books. "Yes, well--"
"Admit it, it's brilliant," she said, copying his movement. "It's Brilliance on Ice, it's--it's an entire spectrum of brilliance so brilliant, they have yet to think up a word for it. It's brill-tastic."
"Is it now?"
"Yep. It's brill-tastic. And that's what they'll say. 'Why, Cleaver dear, this is brill-tastic'. 'Yes, Joan, I know. Brill-tastic indeed.'"
He stopped his movement, a stack of books in hand. "Remind me, Lorelai, what this..."
"Brill-tastic."
"Remind me again what it was."
She straightened proudly. "A high-powered, super-voltage, stake-flinging machine!"
"Of course. How could I forget."
"It whittles its own stakes, it carves it to its pointiest point. It pretty much does everything itself. All you have to do, aside from lavishing it with the necessary amount of tender-lovin'-care, of course, is aim and fire. Whoosh. There goes your perfectly carved stake, straight through the vampire's heart. Simple as that."
"I see. And, of course, this would be battery-operated."
"Well, uh, okay. Or electrically... charged..."
"There are outlets in these supposed graveyards?"
Lorelai faltered. "Some. Probably."
"And you'll, quite obviously, have time to load and reload your weapons."
"Depending on the vampire, and the vampire activity..."
"It'll not run out, I assume?"
"Well, I--"
"And were there ever an electrical shortage, there'd be a back-up generator?"
"Well, okay, I hadn't thought that far ahead--"
"You're right, it's absolutely brilliant. It's--what was the word you used?"
A pause. Then a feeble, "Brill-tastic."
"Yes, Lorelai. Sounds brill-tastic indeed. And when I explain to your parents how I lost my Slayer because her--her stake-manifesting machine malfunctioned, I'm sure they'll at least appreciate the brill-tasticity involved."
"Mom will," she grumbled. "She'd probably invite you over for a warm cup of tea to decide whether or not there's any money to make off my idea, all the while pretending to mourn the death of her beloved daughter, the only one she ever had."
That got the sigh again. "Lorelai..."
"A'ha! You know it's true."
"Your mother," he says, struggling for the right words, "is a... a wonderful women."
"Oh, God, you have bile in your mouth just from saying that, don't you? I have bile. I have vicarious bile."
"Lorelai..."
"Shoosh! You've smooshed my points and un-brilled my brill-tastic and now there is bile, there's bile in my mouth, and because of you my mother will dance on my grave and steal all my millions--"
2. Dean Winchester, Supernatural.
"Oh, you are so gonna wish you didn't do that," Dean wheezes, wiping the blood away from his wet lip. He's toe-to-toe with a vampire, some ugly ass thing that's about ten belt loops too wide and a couple cinder blocks taller, but if you think he's at a disadvantage, you're out of your ever-lovin' mind.
"See, me," he says, eyes flaring and grin widening, "I don't have any wood allergies. But you? Oh, man," he fakely sympathizes, a chuckle tagging along as he waves his stake side-to-side. "That puts you at a serious disadvantage."
The vampire lunges, stupid ass thing that is, and Dean slides out of the way, grabbing as he does the collar of its tacky leather jacket and pulling it with him in a barrel hold. Coming out of the spin that move puts them in, Dean shoves the vamp to the ground and watches with uncontained glee as its head smacks against the very grave from which it'd just crawled from. It's like sweet, sweet just rewards.
"Okay," he continues, pretty damn out of breath. Not that he's out of shape, not by a long shot, but this demon-ass kicking gig is exhausting. "You are one stubborn son-of-a-bitch, you know that?"
The vampire growls and leaps to its feet, quicker than Dean was prepared for. He's knocked flat on his ass by an assaulting fist, one that feels like it's lined with heavy steel armor, and it sends him sprawling to the ground like a sack of dead weight. The next second the vampire crawls on top of him, straddling him just above the waist.
"You know," Dean mutters, looking up into two very yellow, very pissed off eyes. "I don't usually like to take things this far on the first date. Well, alright," he backtracks, and then, with a grunt of effort, he grabs the vampires legs and sends them into a crocodile roll until he's on top and the vampire's on bottom, "who am I kidding?" he finishes, ignoring the demon's jerky movements beneath him. "I always take things this far. Just not with someone as friggin' ugly as you." He drops forward an inch and offers up a sweet smile. "No offense."
Without warning, Dean finds himself propelled forward, and he lands face down, his hands spread out in front of him. This time it dazes him, enough to let the vampire pin him against the ground again. His eyesight is fuzzy, there's this loud ringing in his ears, and he's only barely aware of the weight on his back that's heading for his jugular.
And then, all of a sudden, there's nothing. The heaviness on top of him disappears. The tickling breath that'd been at his neck is gone. It's eerily quiet, but Dean has the sneaking suspicion he's not alone. It's raining ashes like some kinda volcanic shower storm.
The dust clears, Dean coughs, and through the parting haze he notices two seriously weathered black boots in front of him. As his gaze rises from the scuff mark view, to two legs tightly wrapped by black jeans, to the mother of all trenchcoats, he hears being drawled, "Well, now. What do we have here?" in a lazy British voice, light and amused. "Dru, sweetheart, look what Mr. Sandman's dropped in our laps, all nice and trussed up-like. And here I figured the holidays would be dismal."
"Yes," a woman's voice--British again, if he's catching the accent right--agrees, playfully, that same drawl as the guy's, only more, you know, feminine and psychotic. Dean looks to British Dude's side and, okay, he's got himself a sick little Goth Chick girlfriend. She claps, all excited, bouncing on her heels like a five-year old. "I think maybe the stars knew we were coming. They've set up for a tea party and we're the three guests. Like little maids, all in a row. I wonder, though, how he should feel were we to eat without Daddy here?"
British Dude rolls his eyes. Even from Dean's low, I-might-as-well-be-kissing-dirt angle he can see the guy's jaw tighten. "I'd wager he wouldn't mind, Drusilla."
Dean could only be entertained by the Weird and the Heartbeatless enough before growing bored. Quota filled. "Listen, guys," he says, starting to push up off the ground, chest first, "I hate to break up this enchanting--"
A foot on his back pushes him back down. Hard.
"Now, now," that male British voice drawls again, more cruel and taunting than before. "Not so fast. As much as I'd like to let you go, I'm afraid I can't do that. See, my girl here, she's got a nasty habit of wanting to eat every few hours. Can't quite seem to fill herself up, the poor little pigeon."
The girl's voice filters in, soft and deadly. "Yes," she whispers, like some kinda sweet-nothing.
The steel-toe boot digs into his back, enough to make him wince. "And that's where you come in, mate."
British Dude's words are met with a squeal of delight from his dead girlfriend, and Dean rolls his eyes. "I think we shall have a feast tonight, my Spike. This boy," she purred, "he's glowing. All bright, and full of sunshine. I can see it... even with my eyes closed."
"Dru, dear, he's lying in a puddle of light from the lamp post."
"Spike," she admonished, tsk-ing like a kinky school teacher. "Naughty boy." Her voice dropped low. "We found ourselves a Slayer."
The air went thin around Dean. There was a heavy pause.
Then, "A Slayer?" the guy--apparently dubbed Spike--said, sounding majorly interested.
"Uh, yeah, hi. That'd be me." Dean tried to lift his head high enough to make eye contact. "Dean Winchester. Vampire Slayer since before I even knew what the hell a vampire was. If you wanna go ahead and remove your foot, that'd be great."
The girl's hand snaked towards Dean, then snapped back. "He burns, like fireworks on the 4th of July."
"Seriously," Dean tried again. "If you and Looney Tunes want to split the playing field and make things fair--"
"Fair?" Spike cut in. Instead of obliging, he leaned down towards Dean, until his mouth hovered near Dean's ear. "Sorry, Slayer, not in my word bank. I prefer... odds. Usually when they're in my favor."
Dean gritted his teeth together. Really kind of tired of being intimate with the ground. Not to mention, hello, this whole thing was demoralizing on so many levels.
"Fine," he said, though it came out like a breath of air, "if you want to play it that way."
Dean swung his arm behind him, grabbing onto Spike's leg. Before Spike could do anything, like sink them nasty looking fangs into Dean's throat, Dean swiped Spike's leg off of him, then rolled to his side, away from the vampire duo. After that, he wasted no time in getting to his feet, knowing that he had only seconds to do so before an attack came.
Instead, though, Spike and Dru stayed in place. Dru, in game face, stood coiled tight, prepared to strike, but Spike just laughed.
"That," he said, "was pathetic."
"Yeah, well." Dean shrugged. "Improv was never really my strong point. To tell you the truth, I prefer the scripted stuff." As proof, he whipped out his stake. Good thing he always carried a back-up. Or three. He smiled, then, and prepared to ease forward. "And, dude, you should see what I can do with a prop."
3. Logan Echolls, Veronica Mars.
If Logan had a dollar for every time Rupert Giles gave him that disappointed-Watcher look, he'd probably be some spoilt rich asshole kid living the high life in some vague California city, setting up bum fights just for the pure hell and allure of it, and living life to its absolute, most pathetic fullest.
As it is, they don't come with a monetary attachment, just that charming little upside-down smile.
There's a sigh that breaks though his thoughts, and when he looks up, there's Disappointed Look number I'd Be Richer Than Bill Gates By Now. "And, of course, you haven't heard a word I said," his Watcher says, more a slow, self-deprecating drawl of words than anything.
Logan pastes on a bright smile, the stake in his hand twirling idly, casually between his fingers. "You know, I'm offended you'd think that."
"Are you now?" Giles drones.
"Careful. With that attitude, I might start thinking I've let you down. I can't have that on my conscious, now can I?"
Giles starts doing that flustered thing he does when he's annoyed, but too British to actually admit that a 17-year old kid with Dennis the Menace looks and equal shenanigan-y antics could get to him. "No," he says, though it's like coffee beans being ground together, they way it sounds and the way he forces it out, "I suppose not."
Logan's smiles grows. "That's the spirit. Now buck up, Rupes, I hear we've got some nasties to catch."
4. Dwight Schrute, The Office.
He's stealthy. He's a ninja of darkness, born for this. Bred for this. Spewed from the cosmo's especially for this.
Carefully, his eyes never trained on one thing for too long, Dwight slips from the cover of the shadows. Restfield Cemetery, his favorite nighttime office. The undead. Vampires. Clever ploys of evil, always there to test the limit of his spectacular abilities. He doesn't mind. Bring it on is his motto. Gimme what you got. Gimme your best. Or your almost-best, it doesn't matter. He's ready.
He's dressed from head-to-toe in deep, dark Cylon blood-black. He knows that, like the wild animals they are, vampires are attracted to bright colors. Reds and oranges and that vomit-worthy shade of purple Xander Harris would wear. He doesn't care. He doesn't need lures or worms or pieces of dry gluten bread dangling at the tip of his fish-hook.
"C'mon," he mutters to himself, over and over again, pumping himself up.
Giles had mentioned to him before he left Station Tweed that there was a new demon in town, one truly worthy of a Marvel Comics splash cover.
Dwight didn't need details. He never needed details.
He's trained in several martial arts. That helps. He's like a cobra, waiting to strike.
A sense of awareness flashes to his right, and he reacts with quick speed. A fist shoots through the air, his body swivels in a North Easternly direction, but there's nothing there. Still, he looks around. Peers through the dense darkness. Just to be sure.
"Hiya, Scharp Schruter."
Dammit.
Dwight stumbles to his left, only to be met face-to-face with the bane of his entire existence. Xander Harris. First class underachiever. Renowned prankster. Also the most annoying person Dwight knows.
"Go. Home," he orders, no room for disobedience.
"Uhm," Xander says, pausing to give it some serious thought, "no."
"Yes. Go home right now."
"Why, because you're playing?"
"Because I'm working. Hello, Slayer here."
"Ohhhh, right. You're the Slayer."
"That's right. I am. And you," he makes sure to point out, "are not, which means that you shouldn't be here."
Xander looks around with some skepticism. "It's public property."
"That doesn't matter."
"I think it does."
"No, it--look," he says, dropping his voice low, "this is very serious, okay? No, no. Listen to me. Even the most minuscule of distractions could result in a disaster so monstrous, it'd make the Cylon war look like kids play. Red rover, red rover, send--oohh, that's right, there's no one to send over--because I was distracted on duty and EVERYONE DIED."
Moment of tense pause.
Then, "Don't you think that's a tad dramatic?"
Dwight straightens his glasses in self-defense. "It's perfectly plausible."
"Sure thing, Scharp Schruter."
"I told you not to call me that."
"Yeah, alright," Xander says, in a tone that has absolutely no validity. "I'm here on official Watcher duty. Giles wants you to head back to the roosting nest A-SAP."
Dwight looks for signs of dishonesty. A pinched face. Overactive sweat glands. Avoidance of eye contact. But Xander exhibits nothing out of the ordinary, looking like his usual self, so Dwight tucks his stake back into his stake-sheath (the one specifically woven out of ancient leather by a blind nun, baptized by the Queen herself while she was nearly avoiding being gunned down by homicidal mercenaries--or, okay, Dwight's great-aunt, but whatever. It's still awesome) and takes a few cautious steps forward.
"Did he say what about?"
Xander shrugs. "I'm just the messenger. An underpaid, dashingly handsome, so, so very not-appreciated messenger. I think, though, demons may have been mentioned. An apocalypse. Giles would've sprinted out here and told you himself, but, you know, he's British. Plus he likes to indulge in worldly crisis all by his itty-bitty lonesome."
Dwight's vision blanks over as he stares into the darkness, mind playing through all sorts of apocalyptic probabilities. "Of course..."
"All right." Xander claps his hands together, mock-bowing. "Duty done. Now excuse me while I officially start to panic--in the form of Bronzing, of course."
As Xander turns to go, Dwight pulls himself together. The world... is in his hands. He holds it there. So tenderly. Like a mother deer carefully doting its fawn. And like the hunter that this supposed Apocalypse is, Dwight will protect that fawn with his own life. With everything.
5. Bridget Jones, Bridget Jones' Diary.
~~SUNDAY 3 DECEMBER
128 lbs. (v. serious problem), alcohol units 4, cigarettes 3 (major relaxation and comfort after s.time, so not at fault), no. of vampires managed to stake despite problem with non-functional warbly heels 2 (excellent!), total calories 7995
9 a.m. Home. Comfy bed. Argh. Absurd ringing of the phone going off. Not the bloody alarm, which hasn't been set because no one should be squawked at by melted heap of metal and plastic first thing in morning. Phone still ringing. Not going to answer it. Going to fall back asleep, back to that blissful place of delicious Mr. Darcy, right when he dives into the lake.
10:30 a.m. En route to Giles. Phone could not be ignored. Not with its incessant wheezing noise. Of course, on answer, it was Giles.
"Bridget."
"Yes," I said, stifling a rather monstrous yawn. Where, by chance, did I last lay my pack of cigarettes? Began a massive search party in their honor, half-listening to Watcher Giles, but mostly concerned for cigarettes whereabouts.
"There's, erm, rather urgent--"
Decided to announce, then and there, the rather obvious. "It's 9:30 in the morning."
Honestly. Do not know what even goes on in that frumpy Watcher head of his, but am sure it's not anything resembling normal kind of logic. Why, he'd probably been up all night, paging and leafing through old dirty textbooks when any normal and reasonably sane bloke of his stature would've been out on the town, possibly indulging in quaint mid-life crisis.
"I am, ah, aware." Awkward. "Never the less--"
"You're aware, are you? Because I find that rather hard to believe, you know, given the fact that I'm being rung up at such an ungodly, ill-timed hour."
Zing! Applause-worthy comeback. Thank you, thank you.
One very frustrated, very heavy sigh breathes through the phone set from his end. Very paternal. "Bridget."
"Right," I announce, mock-salute. "I shall report for duty in oh-one hundred hours."
Yet another weary sigh. "See you soon, Bridget."
Hang up feeling rather pleased with myself, and not at all tired anymore.
2 p.m. Why Giles felt the need to relay the latest demon news in person is beyond me. Typical, run-of-the-mill, I-do-this-every-night business, yet he feels as though I should be awoken at indecent hours and hurried over and very nearly trampled by large public bus just so I can be properly prepared. Proper. Hah. More like improper and absolutely unnecessary.
Am late for lunch with Willow and Xander now! Best friends are not as easily forgivable as robbed sleep.
2:40 p.m. Lounging in the smoky glow of the Bronze. "Cut the G-man some slack."
I stare at Xander, mouth unattractively agape. Surely this is not the same Xander Harris who, on quite a daily and unfaltering basis, has found at least one childish remark to make about frumpy Watcher Rupert Giles since we've been best mates. Reality must've gone and shifted when I wasn't looking. Explains why favorite pair of jeans were suddenly too tight this morning.
"He can't help that he's, you know, all... Giles-y."
Immediately hit Willow with same look. These are not my friends! Body-snatchers, perhaps, which on the cusp of a Hellmouth is not entirely impracticable. Through narrow eyes I try to see if perhaps there are any visible tell-tale signs of this newest exposed theory. Zippers on backs of necks. Flaking plastic flesh molded over robotic frames.
"Oh, stop looking at us like that," Willow admonishes, taking a sip of her Long Island ice tea. She swirls the ice around with her straw. "I wish Tara were here..."
Obligatory change of subject. Am still stuck on their sticking up for Giles, though. Ritual demands that we, as a gang of dubbed Scoobies back while we were still running around in our wee nappies, partake in the necessary amount of Giles-bashery until mood lifts from bad to good. Mood not lifted. If anything, mood officially on strike from lifting.
5:47 p.m. Hurrah! Everything is normal again! Xander made up for fleeting insanity by agreeing that Rupert Giles has noodles for brains, pants seem much looser after traumatic jog from killer dog chase, and am on way to pick out new cute shoes that will not warble!
9 p.m. UGH! UGH UGH UGH! Stupid, stupid vampire. Shoes ruined! Am completely depressed. Things were going reasonably well, all things considered, when out of shadows leapt large, bulky, fashion-disaster of a vampire. Should've retreated because:
a. Stake was knocked loose fairly soon.
b. Vampire was larger and bulkier, therefore could've easily been bitten.
c. Emitted a smell that rivaled stinky cheese.
Stupidly stayed. Uncharming belief that I can handle anything. Stupid. Impromptu use of heeled boots as a weapon proved to be disastrous. Vampire dusted, but heeled boot became heeled boot no more. Stupid. ARGH!
9:04 p.m. Restfield Cemetery. Was going through proper mourning for recently deceased shoes when, out of nowhere, Angel appeared.
"Bridget," he says.
Am immediately on the defense, as this Angel bloke seems particularly vile. What with the way he's always lurking about, hiding in shadows and other what-nots. Nose held high, for am all-powerful Slayer after all, I greet him with annoyance. "Angel."
Shouldn't even have said that much, as vile Angel seemed to take it as an invitation to stay.
"Where're you off to tonight?"
"Oh, you know. Here. There." Am haughty Slayer!
"Any chance I could tag along?"
Honestly! Do not understand the inner-workings of vile Angel. Send out major repellent vibes, and still he stays latched, like some... vile, latching thing that is neither attractive nor amusing. Should tell him this, really, as it's better to know your flaws, but decide against it. Worse than vile Angel is possibility of weepy-vile Angel.
"I'm really rather busy," I say, taking off useless shoes and stomping forward. Do not care of spectacle I must look, tramping through a graveyard in stockings and bare feet.
Vile Angel hurries to follow. "I don't mind."
Could scream, really.
Began to make way home. Vile Angel at side, moping silently, but am ignoring. Will return heeled boots tomorrow morning, it is decided, and will claim malfunction on makers part. Will look appropriately upset and perhaps demand to speak to manager until compensated with another pair, and will not, under any circumstance, wear on patrol.
Also will not speak to Vile Angel ever again. Have decided am mute Slayer.
Author: crackers4jenn
Pairing/Character: Dwight K. Schrute + different characters from different fandoms.
Rating: It's about as tame as a baby kitten. PG-ish.
Summary: I think the title says it all.
Spoilers: None!
Title: 5 Characters That Never Were The Slayer.
Summary: The title says it all, yo.
1. Lorelai Gilmore, Gilmore Girls.
"I'm just saying that maybe it should be, at the very least, thoroughly considered."
"Lorelai," Giles sighs, not for the first time. Though, like the previous others, it just gets ignored.
"One day, Rupert Giles, you're going to realize the brilliance that is my plan, and when you do, I will be sitting back, grapes being served by some meaty, rippled man-servant guy, and I just might not be in the mood to acknowledge your, what I'm sure will be, very long, very sincere apologies--"
"Are you perhaps nearing a point yet?"
Lorelai started to frown. "My point got smooshed to pieces by your unenthusiasm. It's a sad, smooshy point now."
"How terribly disconcerting."
"It was. And still is. Like Rosie O'Donnel joining The View. Or Katie Couric leaving The Today Show. Oh, or that other lady, what's-her-face, the one nobody ever liked, leaving The View and joining The Today Show. It's a disconcerting freak show, complete with a Musical Chairs of who's-who TV talk show hosts, and I'm sad, Giles, so terribly, terribly sad, that you were the smoosher-of-points that started it all."
Giles, somewhat ruffled, began to stand up and collect the scattered research books. "Yes, well--"
"Admit it, it's brilliant," she said, copying his movement. "It's Brilliance on Ice, it's--it's an entire spectrum of brilliance so brilliant, they have yet to think up a word for it. It's brill-tastic."
"Is it now?"
"Yep. It's brill-tastic. And that's what they'll say. 'Why, Cleaver dear, this is brill-tastic'. 'Yes, Joan, I know. Brill-tastic indeed.'"
He stopped his movement, a stack of books in hand. "Remind me, Lorelai, what this..."
"Brill-tastic."
"Remind me again what it was."
She straightened proudly. "A high-powered, super-voltage, stake-flinging machine!"
"Of course. How could I forget."
"It whittles its own stakes, it carves it to its pointiest point. It pretty much does everything itself. All you have to do, aside from lavishing it with the necessary amount of tender-lovin'-care, of course, is aim and fire. Whoosh. There goes your perfectly carved stake, straight through the vampire's heart. Simple as that."
"I see. And, of course, this would be battery-operated."
"Well, uh, okay. Or electrically... charged..."
"There are outlets in these supposed graveyards?"
Lorelai faltered. "Some. Probably."
"And you'll, quite obviously, have time to load and reload your weapons."
"Depending on the vampire, and the vampire activity..."
"It'll not run out, I assume?"
"Well, I--"
"And were there ever an electrical shortage, there'd be a back-up generator?"
"Well, okay, I hadn't thought that far ahead--"
"You're right, it's absolutely brilliant. It's--what was the word you used?"
A pause. Then a feeble, "Brill-tastic."
"Yes, Lorelai. Sounds brill-tastic indeed. And when I explain to your parents how I lost my Slayer because her--her stake-manifesting machine malfunctioned, I'm sure they'll at least appreciate the brill-tasticity involved."
"Mom will," she grumbled. "She'd probably invite you over for a warm cup of tea to decide whether or not there's any money to make off my idea, all the while pretending to mourn the death of her beloved daughter, the only one she ever had."
That got the sigh again. "Lorelai..."
"A'ha! You know it's true."
"Your mother," he says, struggling for the right words, "is a... a wonderful women."
"Oh, God, you have bile in your mouth just from saying that, don't you? I have bile. I have vicarious bile."
"Lorelai..."
"Shoosh! You've smooshed my points and un-brilled my brill-tastic and now there is bile, there's bile in my mouth, and because of you my mother will dance on my grave and steal all my millions--"
2. Dean Winchester, Supernatural.
"Oh, you are so gonna wish you didn't do that," Dean wheezes, wiping the blood away from his wet lip. He's toe-to-toe with a vampire, some ugly ass thing that's about ten belt loops too wide and a couple cinder blocks taller, but if you think he's at a disadvantage, you're out of your ever-lovin' mind.
"See, me," he says, eyes flaring and grin widening, "I don't have any wood allergies. But you? Oh, man," he fakely sympathizes, a chuckle tagging along as he waves his stake side-to-side. "That puts you at a serious disadvantage."
The vampire lunges, stupid ass thing that is, and Dean slides out of the way, grabbing as he does the collar of its tacky leather jacket and pulling it with him in a barrel hold. Coming out of the spin that move puts them in, Dean shoves the vamp to the ground and watches with uncontained glee as its head smacks against the very grave from which it'd just crawled from. It's like sweet, sweet just rewards.
"Okay," he continues, pretty damn out of breath. Not that he's out of shape, not by a long shot, but this demon-ass kicking gig is exhausting. "You are one stubborn son-of-a-bitch, you know that?"
The vampire growls and leaps to its feet, quicker than Dean was prepared for. He's knocked flat on his ass by an assaulting fist, one that feels like it's lined with heavy steel armor, and it sends him sprawling to the ground like a sack of dead weight. The next second the vampire crawls on top of him, straddling him just above the waist.
"You know," Dean mutters, looking up into two very yellow, very pissed off eyes. "I don't usually like to take things this far on the first date. Well, alright," he backtracks, and then, with a grunt of effort, he grabs the vampires legs and sends them into a crocodile roll until he's on top and the vampire's on bottom, "who am I kidding?" he finishes, ignoring the demon's jerky movements beneath him. "I always take things this far. Just not with someone as friggin' ugly as you." He drops forward an inch and offers up a sweet smile. "No offense."
Without warning, Dean finds himself propelled forward, and he lands face down, his hands spread out in front of him. This time it dazes him, enough to let the vampire pin him against the ground again. His eyesight is fuzzy, there's this loud ringing in his ears, and he's only barely aware of the weight on his back that's heading for his jugular.
And then, all of a sudden, there's nothing. The heaviness on top of him disappears. The tickling breath that'd been at his neck is gone. It's eerily quiet, but Dean has the sneaking suspicion he's not alone. It's raining ashes like some kinda volcanic shower storm.
The dust clears, Dean coughs, and through the parting haze he notices two seriously weathered black boots in front of him. As his gaze rises from the scuff mark view, to two legs tightly wrapped by black jeans, to the mother of all trenchcoats, he hears being drawled, "Well, now. What do we have here?" in a lazy British voice, light and amused. "Dru, sweetheart, look what Mr. Sandman's dropped in our laps, all nice and trussed up-like. And here I figured the holidays would be dismal."
"Yes," a woman's voice--British again, if he's catching the accent right--agrees, playfully, that same drawl as the guy's, only more, you know, feminine and psychotic. Dean looks to British Dude's side and, okay, he's got himself a sick little Goth Chick girlfriend. She claps, all excited, bouncing on her heels like a five-year old. "I think maybe the stars knew we were coming. They've set up for a tea party and we're the three guests. Like little maids, all in a row. I wonder, though, how he should feel were we to eat without Daddy here?"
British Dude rolls his eyes. Even from Dean's low, I-might-as-well-be-kissing-dirt angle he can see the guy's jaw tighten. "I'd wager he wouldn't mind, Drusilla."
Dean could only be entertained by the Weird and the Heartbeatless enough before growing bored. Quota filled. "Listen, guys," he says, starting to push up off the ground, chest first, "I hate to break up this enchanting--"
A foot on his back pushes him back down. Hard.
"Now, now," that male British voice drawls again, more cruel and taunting than before. "Not so fast. As much as I'd like to let you go, I'm afraid I can't do that. See, my girl here, she's got a nasty habit of wanting to eat every few hours. Can't quite seem to fill herself up, the poor little pigeon."
The girl's voice filters in, soft and deadly. "Yes," she whispers, like some kinda sweet-nothing.
The steel-toe boot digs into his back, enough to make him wince. "And that's where you come in, mate."
British Dude's words are met with a squeal of delight from his dead girlfriend, and Dean rolls his eyes. "I think we shall have a feast tonight, my Spike. This boy," she purred, "he's glowing. All bright, and full of sunshine. I can see it... even with my eyes closed."
"Dru, dear, he's lying in a puddle of light from the lamp post."
"Spike," she admonished, tsk-ing like a kinky school teacher. "Naughty boy." Her voice dropped low. "We found ourselves a Slayer."
The air went thin around Dean. There was a heavy pause.
Then, "A Slayer?" the guy--apparently dubbed Spike--said, sounding majorly interested.
"Uh, yeah, hi. That'd be me." Dean tried to lift his head high enough to make eye contact. "Dean Winchester. Vampire Slayer since before I even knew what the hell a vampire was. If you wanna go ahead and remove your foot, that'd be great."
The girl's hand snaked towards Dean, then snapped back. "He burns, like fireworks on the 4th of July."
"Seriously," Dean tried again. "If you and Looney Tunes want to split the playing field and make things fair--"
"Fair?" Spike cut in. Instead of obliging, he leaned down towards Dean, until his mouth hovered near Dean's ear. "Sorry, Slayer, not in my word bank. I prefer... odds. Usually when they're in my favor."
Dean gritted his teeth together. Really kind of tired of being intimate with the ground. Not to mention, hello, this whole thing was demoralizing on so many levels.
"Fine," he said, though it came out like a breath of air, "if you want to play it that way."
Dean swung his arm behind him, grabbing onto Spike's leg. Before Spike could do anything, like sink them nasty looking fangs into Dean's throat, Dean swiped Spike's leg off of him, then rolled to his side, away from the vampire duo. After that, he wasted no time in getting to his feet, knowing that he had only seconds to do so before an attack came.
Instead, though, Spike and Dru stayed in place. Dru, in game face, stood coiled tight, prepared to strike, but Spike just laughed.
"That," he said, "was pathetic."
"Yeah, well." Dean shrugged. "Improv was never really my strong point. To tell you the truth, I prefer the scripted stuff." As proof, he whipped out his stake. Good thing he always carried a back-up. Or three. He smiled, then, and prepared to ease forward. "And, dude, you should see what I can do with a prop."
3. Logan Echolls, Veronica Mars.
If Logan had a dollar for every time Rupert Giles gave him that disappointed-Watcher look, he'd probably be some spoilt rich asshole kid living the high life in some vague California city, setting up bum fights just for the pure hell and allure of it, and living life to its absolute, most pathetic fullest.
As it is, they don't come with a monetary attachment, just that charming little upside-down smile.
There's a sigh that breaks though his thoughts, and when he looks up, there's Disappointed Look number I'd Be Richer Than Bill Gates By Now. "And, of course, you haven't heard a word I said," his Watcher says, more a slow, self-deprecating drawl of words than anything.
Logan pastes on a bright smile, the stake in his hand twirling idly, casually between his fingers. "You know, I'm offended you'd think that."
"Are you now?" Giles drones.
"Careful. With that attitude, I might start thinking I've let you down. I can't have that on my conscious, now can I?"
Giles starts doing that flustered thing he does when he's annoyed, but too British to actually admit that a 17-year old kid with Dennis the Menace looks and equal shenanigan-y antics could get to him. "No," he says, though it's like coffee beans being ground together, they way it sounds and the way he forces it out, "I suppose not."
Logan's smiles grows. "That's the spirit. Now buck up, Rupes, I hear we've got some nasties to catch."
4. Dwight Schrute, The Office.
He's stealthy. He's a ninja of darkness, born for this. Bred for this. Spewed from the cosmo's especially for this.
Carefully, his eyes never trained on one thing for too long, Dwight slips from the cover of the shadows. Restfield Cemetery, his favorite nighttime office. The undead. Vampires. Clever ploys of evil, always there to test the limit of his spectacular abilities. He doesn't mind. Bring it on is his motto. Gimme what you got. Gimme your best. Or your almost-best, it doesn't matter. He's ready.
He's dressed from head-to-toe in deep, dark Cylon blood-black. He knows that, like the wild animals they are, vampires are attracted to bright colors. Reds and oranges and that vomit-worthy shade of purple Xander Harris would wear. He doesn't care. He doesn't need lures or worms or pieces of dry gluten bread dangling at the tip of his fish-hook.
"C'mon," he mutters to himself, over and over again, pumping himself up.
Giles had mentioned to him before he left Station Tweed that there was a new demon in town, one truly worthy of a Marvel Comics splash cover.
Dwight didn't need details. He never needed details.
He's trained in several martial arts. That helps. He's like a cobra, waiting to strike.
A sense of awareness flashes to his right, and he reacts with quick speed. A fist shoots through the air, his body swivels in a North Easternly direction, but there's nothing there. Still, he looks around. Peers through the dense darkness. Just to be sure.
"Hiya, Scharp Schruter."
Dammit.
Dwight stumbles to his left, only to be met face-to-face with the bane of his entire existence. Xander Harris. First class underachiever. Renowned prankster. Also the most annoying person Dwight knows.
"Go. Home," he orders, no room for disobedience.
"Uhm," Xander says, pausing to give it some serious thought, "no."
"Yes. Go home right now."
"Why, because you're playing?"
"Because I'm working. Hello, Slayer here."
"Ohhhh, right. You're the Slayer."
"That's right. I am. And you," he makes sure to point out, "are not, which means that you shouldn't be here."
Xander looks around with some skepticism. "It's public property."
"That doesn't matter."
"I think it does."
"No, it--look," he says, dropping his voice low, "this is very serious, okay? No, no. Listen to me. Even the most minuscule of distractions could result in a disaster so monstrous, it'd make the Cylon war look like kids play. Red rover, red rover, send--oohh, that's right, there's no one to send over--because I was distracted on duty and EVERYONE DIED."
Moment of tense pause.
Then, "Don't you think that's a tad dramatic?"
Dwight straightens his glasses in self-defense. "It's perfectly plausible."
"Sure thing, Scharp Schruter."
"I told you not to call me that."
"Yeah, alright," Xander says, in a tone that has absolutely no validity. "I'm here on official Watcher duty. Giles wants you to head back to the roosting nest A-SAP."
Dwight looks for signs of dishonesty. A pinched face. Overactive sweat glands. Avoidance of eye contact. But Xander exhibits nothing out of the ordinary, looking like his usual self, so Dwight tucks his stake back into his stake-sheath (the one specifically woven out of ancient leather by a blind nun, baptized by the Queen herself while she was nearly avoiding being gunned down by homicidal mercenaries--or, okay, Dwight's great-aunt, but whatever. It's still awesome) and takes a few cautious steps forward.
"Did he say what about?"
Xander shrugs. "I'm just the messenger. An underpaid, dashingly handsome, so, so very not-appreciated messenger. I think, though, demons may have been mentioned. An apocalypse. Giles would've sprinted out here and told you himself, but, you know, he's British. Plus he likes to indulge in worldly crisis all by his itty-bitty lonesome."
Dwight's vision blanks over as he stares into the darkness, mind playing through all sorts of apocalyptic probabilities. "Of course..."
"All right." Xander claps his hands together, mock-bowing. "Duty done. Now excuse me while I officially start to panic--in the form of Bronzing, of course."
As Xander turns to go, Dwight pulls himself together. The world... is in his hands. He holds it there. So tenderly. Like a mother deer carefully doting its fawn. And like the hunter that this supposed Apocalypse is, Dwight will protect that fawn with his own life. With everything.
5. Bridget Jones, Bridget Jones' Diary.
~~SUNDAY 3 DECEMBER
128 lbs. (v. serious problem), alcohol units 4, cigarettes 3 (major relaxation and comfort after s.time, so not at fault), no. of vampires managed to stake despite problem with non-functional warbly heels 2 (excellent!), total calories 7995
9 a.m. Home. Comfy bed. Argh. Absurd ringing of the phone going off. Not the bloody alarm, which hasn't been set because no one should be squawked at by melted heap of metal and plastic first thing in morning. Phone still ringing. Not going to answer it. Going to fall back asleep, back to that blissful place of delicious Mr. Darcy, right when he dives into the lake.
10:30 a.m. En route to Giles. Phone could not be ignored. Not with its incessant wheezing noise. Of course, on answer, it was Giles.
"Bridget."
"Yes," I said, stifling a rather monstrous yawn. Where, by chance, did I last lay my pack of cigarettes? Began a massive search party in their honor, half-listening to Watcher Giles, but mostly concerned for cigarettes whereabouts.
"There's, erm, rather urgent--"
Decided to announce, then and there, the rather obvious. "It's 9:30 in the morning."
Honestly. Do not know what even goes on in that frumpy Watcher head of his, but am sure it's not anything resembling normal kind of logic. Why, he'd probably been up all night, paging and leafing through old dirty textbooks when any normal and reasonably sane bloke of his stature would've been out on the town, possibly indulging in quaint mid-life crisis.
"I am, ah, aware." Awkward. "Never the less--"
"You're aware, are you? Because I find that rather hard to believe, you know, given the fact that I'm being rung up at such an ungodly, ill-timed hour."
Zing! Applause-worthy comeback. Thank you, thank you.
One very frustrated, very heavy sigh breathes through the phone set from his end. Very paternal. "Bridget."
"Right," I announce, mock-salute. "I shall report for duty in oh-one hundred hours."
Yet another weary sigh. "See you soon, Bridget."
Hang up feeling rather pleased with myself, and not at all tired anymore.
2 p.m. Why Giles felt the need to relay the latest demon news in person is beyond me. Typical, run-of-the-mill, I-do-this-every-night business, yet he feels as though I should be awoken at indecent hours and hurried over and very nearly trampled by large public bus just so I can be properly prepared. Proper. Hah. More like improper and absolutely unnecessary.
Am late for lunch with Willow and Xander now! Best friends are not as easily forgivable as robbed sleep.
2:40 p.m. Lounging in the smoky glow of the Bronze. "Cut the G-man some slack."
I stare at Xander, mouth unattractively agape. Surely this is not the same Xander Harris who, on quite a daily and unfaltering basis, has found at least one childish remark to make about frumpy Watcher Rupert Giles since we've been best mates. Reality must've gone and shifted when I wasn't looking. Explains why favorite pair of jeans were suddenly too tight this morning.
"He can't help that he's, you know, all... Giles-y."
Immediately hit Willow with same look. These are not my friends! Body-snatchers, perhaps, which on the cusp of a Hellmouth is not entirely impracticable. Through narrow eyes I try to see if perhaps there are any visible tell-tale signs of this newest exposed theory. Zippers on backs of necks. Flaking plastic flesh molded over robotic frames.
"Oh, stop looking at us like that," Willow admonishes, taking a sip of her Long Island ice tea. She swirls the ice around with her straw. "I wish Tara were here..."
Obligatory change of subject. Am still stuck on their sticking up for Giles, though. Ritual demands that we, as a gang of dubbed Scoobies back while we were still running around in our wee nappies, partake in the necessary amount of Giles-bashery until mood lifts from bad to good. Mood not lifted. If anything, mood officially on strike from lifting.
5:47 p.m. Hurrah! Everything is normal again! Xander made up for fleeting insanity by agreeing that Rupert Giles has noodles for brains, pants seem much looser after traumatic jog from killer dog chase, and am on way to pick out new cute shoes that will not warble!
9 p.m. UGH! UGH UGH UGH! Stupid, stupid vampire. Shoes ruined! Am completely depressed. Things were going reasonably well, all things considered, when out of shadows leapt large, bulky, fashion-disaster of a vampire. Should've retreated because:
a. Stake was knocked loose fairly soon.
b. Vampire was larger and bulkier, therefore could've easily been bitten.
c. Emitted a smell that rivaled stinky cheese.
Stupidly stayed. Uncharming belief that I can handle anything. Stupid. Impromptu use of heeled boots as a weapon proved to be disastrous. Vampire dusted, but heeled boot became heeled boot no more. Stupid. ARGH!
9:04 p.m. Restfield Cemetery. Was going through proper mourning for recently deceased shoes when, out of nowhere, Angel appeared.
"Bridget," he says.
Am immediately on the defense, as this Angel bloke seems particularly vile. What with the way he's always lurking about, hiding in shadows and other what-nots. Nose held high, for am all-powerful Slayer after all, I greet him with annoyance. "Angel."
Shouldn't even have said that much, as vile Angel seemed to take it as an invitation to stay.
"Where're you off to tonight?"
"Oh, you know. Here. There." Am haughty Slayer!
"Any chance I could tag along?"
Honestly! Do not understand the inner-workings of vile Angel. Send out major repellent vibes, and still he stays latched, like some... vile, latching thing that is neither attractive nor amusing. Should tell him this, really, as it's better to know your flaws, but decide against it. Worse than vile Angel is possibility of weepy-vile Angel.
"I'm really rather busy," I say, taking off useless shoes and stomping forward. Do not care of spectacle I must look, tramping through a graveyard in stockings and bare feet.
Vile Angel hurries to follow. "I don't mind."
Could scream, really.
Began to make way home. Vile Angel at side, moping silently, but am ignoring. Will return heeled boots tomorrow morning, it is decided, and will claim malfunction on makers part. Will look appropriately upset and perhaps demand to speak to manager until compensated with another pair, and will not, under any circumstance, wear on patrol.
Also will not speak to Vile Angel ever again. Have decided am mute Slayer.