Unfinished Fic Amnesty Week
I picked one to get rid of.
This is a post-Existence HL/XF crossover, not resfic, looking to be a Marita/Duncan romance. I was planning on something kind of like a HL ep--Duncan helps Marita get over her (already wishy-washy) feeling that she really ought to go back to Washington and kill Walter Skinner. But I'm not going to write it.
Untitled crossover, by Vanzetti
There's a rhythm to the shuffling noise he hears. It's either fighting or dancing; if they're dancing down a dark alley, he can just walk away again, no harm done.
No one goes dancing in the dark alleys of Seacouver. It's not that kind of town. He turns the corner in time to see a man--a big man, and he moves like a fighter--tossing a woman against a wall. She hits it with her shoulder and staggers.
"Hey!" he yells. The man turns around and he has an impression of pale eyes and colorless hair over a square face; then there's motion behind the man, something metal and glinting in the woman's hand. She pushes herself forward and stabs the man in the back of the neck. It's fast, but his own eye is well-trained and the very strangeness of the scene has him transfixed. His hand went to his sword the moment he saw the tiny blade in the woman's hand.
The man falls forward with the knife still in the back of his neck. She's watching the body expectantly, the way an immortal will watch a newly-beheaded corpse, waiting for the haze that's the first sign of the Quickening.
No power rises from the dead man. Instead, there's a hissing noise and the man begins--if he hadn't seen it himself he would never have believed it--to melt away.
She leans forward carefully, covering her mouth with her sleeve, and retrieves the blade. Like a flick-knife, he notices, but with a spike instead of a blade. She's using her left hand; she moves like she hurt her right shoulder when she went flying into the wall.
She's tall for a woman, with blonde hair tied back in a french braid and a wide mouth that isn't smiling at him. Her face is completely blank; she doesn't look any more human than the thing fizzling away on the street between them.
He takes a step back, his hands well away from any place he might be hiding a weapon. She has a gun in a holster under her left arm. Why didn't she use it against her attacker?
"Can I... What was that?"
"Go away," she says. Tight, controlled voice. Under the veneer, she's exhausted.
At least this part of the conversation is familiar to him. "You need help. My name is Duncan, Duncan McLeod. At least let me take you to the hospital."
"I'll be fine."
"You don't even have shoes on."
"They're around here somewhere," she says. She doesn't take her eyes off him to look around for them. "Thank you, but I don't need your help."
One of her shoes is lying a couple feet in front of him. He takes care to move slowly as he leans down to pick it up, and brings it to her. The kind of high-heeled leather shoe women wear with suits. Practical, but not for fighting. Up close he can see the exhaustion and lines of pain around her eyes. She takes the shoe from his hand in what strikes him as an elegant movement.
"You need to do something about your shoulder," he says. "If you don't want to go to a hospital, I could look at it for you."
"Are you a doctor?"
He shakes his head. "I run a martial arts studio, a dojo, here in town." He pauses. "You don't have anywhere to go, do you? There's a diner a couple blocks away. We could go there, at least get out of the alley."
He takes a step back and sees her other shoe. Still moving slowly, he picks it up and offers it to her. This one was splashed with whatever the creature she killed was made of: the leather has been eaten away in spots.
She stares at it for a moment and murmurs, "Another pair ruined." She puts them on the ground and steps into them, wincing as she rubs at her shoulder. "I think it's just bruised."
The diner is still busy, at this time of night, but he gets them a booth in the back. She sits where she can see the entrances to the room. She orders tea with lemon and stares at the cup when it's placed in front of her.
"What are you running away from?" he asks her.
She tries to shrug and winces. "What you saw."
"What was it?"
She looks up from the mug. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
Her eyes are blue-gray: he looks as earnest as he can as she sizes him up. It isn't enough. She shakes her head and her lips twist into a regretful smile.
"I've seen..." he begins, wondering how much he can say. "I've seen some strange things, but that... That wasn't human." He watches her eyes.
"No," she agrees, "it wasn't."
"I understand if you can't go to the hospital, or to the police," because God knows he's spent enough time himself trying to avoid those things, "but it doesn't mean that you can't accept help from anyone."
"I can't involve... other people."
"But I'm already involved," he insists. "I became involved the minute I walked into that alley."
"If you know what's good for you, Mr. McLeod, you'll leave it alone."
"I'm not good at that. But I can help you. Do you have a place to stay here in Seacouver?"
He must be getting through to her. "What were you doing there tonight?"
"Walking home. I heard the sound of the two of you fighting and went to look."
"That's not a typical reaction. Most people prefer not to know."
"It's the way I am. It's what I do."
"Help people."
"If they let me." It's his failures which rise to the surface of his memory, the people he couldn't keep safe. Those are the voices which urge him to keep trying with this strange proud woman with her ruined shoes and the bruise spreading on her face.
"You have no idea what you would be getting yourself involved in," she protests.
"No one ever does."
For some reason, that line reaches her. She breathes out as if it had knocked the air out of her. "Isn't that the truth," she says, mostly to herself.
[a later scene]
The waitress scowls at him as they leave the diner; she probably thinks that he's the one who put that bruise on Mary's face.
On the sidewalk she stops beneath a streetlight. "There's one more thing." She takes a little knife out of her purse and holds it over the heel of her palm. "The thing you saw, it bleeds green acid. It can change its shape to look like anyone." She makes a light cut; blood oozes out and she blots at it with a tissue before wiping the knife and handing it to him. "Now you."
This is going to take a certain amount of explanation. "This is going to take a little explaining," he says. He doesn't want to frighten her, and he knows what will happen if she sees his flesh healing.
"No excuses, Mr. McLeod."
"Don't be frightened by this," he says, and mimics her motion, but cutting deeper.
"Careful," she says, and then her voice chokes off. She stares at the blue sparks dancing over the cut as the skin mends itself. Then she raises her eyes to his face. Her cut hand comes up to cover her mouth, smearing blood on her chin. He would not have thought that she could get any paler, and he would have been wrong. She takes a step back, and then another, and turns to run.
"Wait!" he says. "Mary!" She doesn't wait, so he runs after her. With her broken shoe there's no way she can outrun him. He catches up to her at the corner
[much later--he's trying to flirt. Or maybe, he's just found out about the conspiracy and is appalled?].
The silence hangs uncomfortably between them. "You expect me to respond," she starts, "to respond like a woman who has a heart, who understands compassion. I am not that woman."
"Not any more, or not ever?"
"Does it matter?"
"Oh, it matters. What was done to you, Marita?"
Her lips are a thin line.
That's it. That's all I have. If anyone wants to take this idea and run with it, be my guest.
This is a post-Existence HL/XF crossover, not resfic, looking to be a Marita/Duncan romance. I was planning on something kind of like a HL ep--Duncan helps Marita get over her (already wishy-washy) feeling that she really ought to go back to Washington and kill Walter Skinner. But I'm not going to write it.
Untitled crossover, by Vanzetti
There's a rhythm to the shuffling noise he hears. It's either fighting or dancing; if they're dancing down a dark alley, he can just walk away again, no harm done.
No one goes dancing in the dark alleys of Seacouver. It's not that kind of town. He turns the corner in time to see a man--a big man, and he moves like a fighter--tossing a woman against a wall. She hits it with her shoulder and staggers.
"Hey!" he yells. The man turns around and he has an impression of pale eyes and colorless hair over a square face; then there's motion behind the man, something metal and glinting in the woman's hand. She pushes herself forward and stabs the man in the back of the neck. It's fast, but his own eye is well-trained and the very strangeness of the scene has him transfixed. His hand went to his sword the moment he saw the tiny blade in the woman's hand.
The man falls forward with the knife still in the back of his neck. She's watching the body expectantly, the way an immortal will watch a newly-beheaded corpse, waiting for the haze that's the first sign of the Quickening.
No power rises from the dead man. Instead, there's a hissing noise and the man begins--if he hadn't seen it himself he would never have believed it--to melt away.
She leans forward carefully, covering her mouth with her sleeve, and retrieves the blade. Like a flick-knife, he notices, but with a spike instead of a blade. She's using her left hand; she moves like she hurt her right shoulder when she went flying into the wall.
She's tall for a woman, with blonde hair tied back in a french braid and a wide mouth that isn't smiling at him. Her face is completely blank; she doesn't look any more human than the thing fizzling away on the street between them.
He takes a step back, his hands well away from any place he might be hiding a weapon. She has a gun in a holster under her left arm. Why didn't she use it against her attacker?
"Can I... What was that?"
"Go away," she says. Tight, controlled voice. Under the veneer, she's exhausted.
At least this part of the conversation is familiar to him. "You need help. My name is Duncan, Duncan McLeod. At least let me take you to the hospital."
"I'll be fine."
"You don't even have shoes on."
"They're around here somewhere," she says. She doesn't take her eyes off him to look around for them. "Thank you, but I don't need your help."
One of her shoes is lying a couple feet in front of him. He takes care to move slowly as he leans down to pick it up, and brings it to her. The kind of high-heeled leather shoe women wear with suits. Practical, but not for fighting. Up close he can see the exhaustion and lines of pain around her eyes. She takes the shoe from his hand in what strikes him as an elegant movement.
"You need to do something about your shoulder," he says. "If you don't want to go to a hospital, I could look at it for you."
"Are you a doctor?"
He shakes his head. "I run a martial arts studio, a dojo, here in town." He pauses. "You don't have anywhere to go, do you? There's a diner a couple blocks away. We could go there, at least get out of the alley."
He takes a step back and sees her other shoe. Still moving slowly, he picks it up and offers it to her. This one was splashed with whatever the creature she killed was made of: the leather has been eaten away in spots.
She stares at it for a moment and murmurs, "Another pair ruined." She puts them on the ground and steps into them, wincing as she rubs at her shoulder. "I think it's just bruised."
The diner is still busy, at this time of night, but he gets them a booth in the back. She sits where she can see the entrances to the room. She orders tea with lemon and stares at the cup when it's placed in front of her.
"What are you running away from?" he asks her.
She tries to shrug and winces. "What you saw."
"What was it?"
She looks up from the mug. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
Her eyes are blue-gray: he looks as earnest as he can as she sizes him up. It isn't enough. She shakes her head and her lips twist into a regretful smile.
"I've seen..." he begins, wondering how much he can say. "I've seen some strange things, but that... That wasn't human." He watches her eyes.
"No," she agrees, "it wasn't."
"I understand if you can't go to the hospital, or to the police," because God knows he's spent enough time himself trying to avoid those things, "but it doesn't mean that you can't accept help from anyone."
"I can't involve... other people."
"But I'm already involved," he insists. "I became involved the minute I walked into that alley."
"If you know what's good for you, Mr. McLeod, you'll leave it alone."
"I'm not good at that. But I can help you. Do you have a place to stay here in Seacouver?"
He must be getting through to her. "What were you doing there tonight?"
"Walking home. I heard the sound of the two of you fighting and went to look."
"That's not a typical reaction. Most people prefer not to know."
"It's the way I am. It's what I do."
"Help people."
"If they let me." It's his failures which rise to the surface of his memory, the people he couldn't keep safe. Those are the voices which urge him to keep trying with this strange proud woman with her ruined shoes and the bruise spreading on her face.
"You have no idea what you would be getting yourself involved in," she protests.
"No one ever does."
For some reason, that line reaches her. She breathes out as if it had knocked the air out of her. "Isn't that the truth," she says, mostly to herself.
[a later scene]
The waitress scowls at him as they leave the diner; she probably thinks that he's the one who put that bruise on Mary's face.
On the sidewalk she stops beneath a streetlight. "There's one more thing." She takes a little knife out of her purse and holds it over the heel of her palm. "The thing you saw, it bleeds green acid. It can change its shape to look like anyone." She makes a light cut; blood oozes out and she blots at it with a tissue before wiping the knife and handing it to him. "Now you."
This is going to take a certain amount of explanation. "This is going to take a little explaining," he says. He doesn't want to frighten her, and he knows what will happen if she sees his flesh healing.
"No excuses, Mr. McLeod."
"Don't be frightened by this," he says, and mimics her motion, but cutting deeper.
"Careful," she says, and then her voice chokes off. She stares at the blue sparks dancing over the cut as the skin mends itself. Then she raises her eyes to his face. Her cut hand comes up to cover her mouth, smearing blood on her chin. He would not have thought that she could get any paler, and he would have been wrong. She takes a step back, and then another, and turns to run.
"Wait!" he says. "Mary!" She doesn't wait, so he runs after her. With her broken shoe there's no way she can outrun him. He catches up to her at the corner
[much later--he's trying to flirt. Or maybe, he's just found out about the conspiracy and is appalled?].
The silence hangs uncomfortably between them. "You expect me to respond," she starts, "to respond like a woman who has a heart, who understands compassion. I am not that woman."
"Not any more, or not ever?"
"Does it matter?"
"Oh, it matters. What was done to you, Marita?"
Her lips are a thin line.
That's it. That's all I have. If anyone wants to take this idea and run with it, be my guest.