team knight, round 2, fic: Wanna Know How I Got These Scars? Part 2/2 [Buffy/Batman & its Earth-3]
Title: Wanna Know How I Got These Scars? Part 2/2 [Wishverse!Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Batman: Nolanverse & Nolanized Earth-3]Author:greedyslayer
Prompt: Crossovers
Word count: 4,588
Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Batman or Buffy the Vampire SlayerRating: PG-13
Warnings: character death; er, violence (due to Owlman, Joker, Owlman=Angelus, inspiration from and use of Batman Beyond: Return of the Joker flashback, the Goddamned Owlman)
Summary: AU. Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Nolanverse/ Nolanized Earth-3. Buffy never arrives on the Sunnydale Hellmouth in time to stop all the vampires from taking over there; she's been a little busy receiving a larger and much more happy scar in Gotham. Who gave it to her is anyone's guess.
Notes: Other pairings like some Spike/Buffy, Joker/Harley, etc. Nolanized E-3 here in the conclusion. Previous Nolanverse/Return of the Joker part here. Credit to
overlithe
for Owlman=Angelus.
They're staring at it.
The Slayer pricks up a finger on each hand, making what looks like bunny ears round her head.
"The guy had a weird 'Creature of the Night' fetish going on."
Now they're avoiding her unsmiling eye.
...
Oh god oh god oh god
The many and huge crumbling bits of building are heading straight for Buffy.
I'm not gonna make it not gonna
Can't even run, stupid stupid leg and stupid stupid criminal shooting a bullet straight through it (wasn't even freakin' aiming for her, a misdirected shot, a goddamn mistake).
And why was the building about to fall on her, why the hell was there an explosion up there? Well, of course for Gotham it's business as usual, she should be used to it by now, Mom and her have lived here ever since she was ten (gonna be buried here; wonder if Dad will come for the funeral, maybe he'll send a card at least).
But then there's a bright flash of color, and she sees it and feels it push her out of the way--and Buffy sees the rock cut the brightness from sight.
There: a bright green sleeve sticking out of the rubble, that violet glove struggling a little before finally going still, and if she squints, she can see red already beginning to soak through the cloth.
Buffy vomits right then and there and is even more of a mess when the paramedics pick her up amidst all the aftermath chaos.
On the TV in her hospital room, the girl watched the images: those worn brown shoes, those mismatched brilliantly shaded socks--peeking out from the white sheet (never watching Wizard of Oz again, never ever, don't care if she was an evil witch, no one deserves to be crushed crushed crushed); the old media of any available coverage of the Jokester when he was alive and well, 'in memoriam;' his body gone missing, stolen from the morgue--but that's it, her Mom shut it off as soon as she returned to the room after speaking with the doc (even if she is grateful to the vigilante clown, she doesn't want to see her only daughter in anymore pain).
Buffy felt that she was taking too long in the hospital, she didn't have to stay that long.
The feeling intensified when the first portrait showed up.
Nestled under her pillow, she had felt the sheet of paper as she scrambled into wakefulness after another bad dream, of dismembered green sleeves dripping blood from its torn socket and trying to make her a balloon animal. Buffy had smoothed it out, and found herself, etched in charcoal, slumbering with a crease across her brow. She looked for a signature; she had questioned her mother; Buffy had tried convincing herself then it was innocent, it was just a get-well gift from someone, her Mom perhaps, she was a bit of an artist, there was more than a need for income to Joyce's decision in working a gallery. Buffy had tried real hard to ignore how the sketch captured her perfectly in sleep, as if someone were watching her intensely, and the grim expression they chose to capture, never looking for something more pleasant while she dozed (and forget the implication of someone even waiting that long in her presence while she was so vulnerable, forget that).
But her Mom said 'no,' a genetically matching crease across her own brow, and while Buffy tried to stay calm and be even flippant about it, her Mom completely flipped out: interrogating the staff and hospital security, involving the police again (admittedly, Buffy felt somewhat reassured by the quick action).
Heightened security, sure, and after the discharge, cops went by their place a bit, but it didn't last--but no eerie portraits came up again, no sign of a stalker, so Buffy felt relatively at ease, even with the survivor's guilt, and the nightmares of the dying man (her hero). And guilt over feeling even remotely happy about still being alive; still, some small part of Buffy felt it was ok for her to feel joy over that particular fact. (That was gratitude, wasn't it?)
Buffy waited, knowing Mom wanted to have a Talk; a parental attempt to further alleviate that guilt, to generally make her feel safe and loved--but no words had made themselves clear. There were awkward silences, and tight hugs, gentle strokes of her hair, and more 'Daughter-Mom' outings; Dad even visited for a weekend. (Of course she saw Mom right after the Jokester's death and her own survival, tears all over and even tighter hugs and breathless pleas: 'if I had lost you' and 'oh god oh god.')
School was plain weird; sure, initially people stared at her and shot her all sorts of questions, but Buffy was surprised at the way she had withdrawn, and couldn't find it within herself to be her usual bubbly self. Her friends just became noise to her with all their prattle, her boyfriend was becoming too smothering and she could no longer stand his fellow football teammates picking and picking on that little smart guy--after she kicked one of them in the balls and that kid fled, Buffy and her boyfriend never talked again. And to her even greater shock, Buffy found it didn't make her too sad; it was just all too weird.
Still, only the dreams (and now they included various girls killing horror movie-rejects, particularly one with a wild mat of dark hair and with black-and-white face paint that reminded her of the clown) and memories of that bright sleeve pinned in the rubble were the only things tormenting her. And the news obviously. Of the crime rates. How they skyrocketed. Afterwards. After the fact. After he… (And Buffy dreams of this too, with that wraith-like painted woman popping in and out: a neon-colored jack-in-the-box she desperately tries to open while Gotham burns around her, but no matter what she does, it stays closed, no matter how hard she begins tossing it around, throwing a fit, crying.)
Near the last dance of the school year (she hadn't been planning on going either way, even if she had eagerly dreamt about it at the start of the semester, but then that was before she had been saved at someone else's expense), another portrait appeared. This time on her desk, and this time of Mom, sleeping and in a moment of exhaustion half-way through smoothing itself out into peace (still sketched in rough charcoal lines). This time Buffy panicked, waving the drawing around and her voice going higher and higher and faster and faster as she tried to explain her worry to her Mother--but it was a full switch, this time with Joyce calming her daughter down.
The police again.
"Y'know this is gonna happen again once they leave…"
"Buffy…"
"No Mom, I'm serious, this is--"
Predictably, they couldn't stay much longer (can't be everywhere at once, responsibility to this much people plain sucks, especially when it can't really be upheld to everyone). Again, no more portraits, but Buffy remained on edge, certain it wasn't the last, but another long gap in between.
The girl proved wrong in her estimation on her 16th birthday, for that was in fact the last charcoal portrait.
Newly 16 and actually pleased over that, Buffy headed straight to their apartment after school; since the last picture of her Mom, the girl hadn't liked dawdling after being let out from classes, preferred returning straight home. On the kitchen table, she found a note from Mom (it was her handwriting), telling her that after she finished her homework, they would go to any restaurant of her choice (within reason) and watch any movie she wanted at the theatre (within rating). This immediately made any of her anxieties fly out the window for the moment, Buffy knew exactly where she wanted to go, and what she wanted to watch, and still holding the note, Buffy rushed excitedly to her Mom's bedroom, opening her mouth to tell her that she'd like to eat at--Mom's necked looked funny.
Mommy was sprawled out on her bed, her eyes empty of any light and her neck at a really weird angle.
"Mom?"
The girls' fingers loosened, and the note fluttered out of her hands.
"Mom?"
The only other noise in the room besides her voice was her treading feet on the carpet, her steady approach toward the bed.
"Mommy?"
The girl's eyes were wet as she vomited the cafeteria lunch all over the floor at the foot of her Mom's bed. She called 911 in a thin reedy voice, and before they arrived (too late) she smoothed out her Mother's skirt into something more presentable.
Everything was a blur afterward, the coroner, the useless stretched-too-thin police, social services--no wonder he caught her so easily.
Buffy had never actually seen Owlman, just like she had never really seen the Jokester before (and still haven't, not really, not in full--only what she could see in the debris)--god, how many people in Gotham ever really saw Owlman? (And, y'know, lived). Oh, everyone had pictures in their head of what he looked like, and Buffy was forcibly reminded how in middle school she'd actually engaged with her friends in imagining what he looked like and telling stories about him to scare each other (only then she had participated, even though such myth-mongering continued in her high school).
And in person, Buffy thought Owlman looked kinda…ridiculous. Unimpressive. Maybe her mind was still a little fried after finding the Body, but the girl was certain it had shown on her face, and it only contributed to Owlman's plans for her.
"This isn't the same alley as when I made the clown," said the darkly shrouded man in a velvet soft voice that stirred no hair on her deadened skin; his vice like grip on her arms didn't tighten, it was strong enough.
"You don't…" A delicate pause. "My own Mother died here."
Then Buffy struggled and shouted and bit and scratched and tried to stomp her feet on the murderer's own--even tried head butting him, but when it connected, that just made her woozy, and slide back, only for Owlman to slam her all the way against the wall, and then bang her sideways against the dumpster.
"Done yet?" His voice wasn't annoyed, but completely blank, business-like.
Her head was spinning, everything on a merry-go-round, and Buffy tried to get up, but remained on her ass, leaning against the dumpster, and even the sight of Owlman pulling out an oddly shaped blade couldn't propel her up. With the other gauntlet hand, he took her chin, applying pressure when she fought back again, even if it was only her head trying to shake side to side. Instinctively, futilely her back pushed away, further and further into the dumpster. Then the blade radiated freezing and burning when it touched the corner of her mouth, and Buffy tried to send her mind away, far away.
don't wanna be here for this
The, uh, the "owlarang" slid through without resistance no matter how much the surrounding muscles underwent a spasm, Buffy never really thought about it before (who the hell thinks about this? Well, obviously the guy doing it right now) but still it seemed to her that her skin shouldn't be giving way so easily, like there was nothing there at all--
don’t' wanna don't wanna
--but there was something, a stinging and a dampness, thinly held behind a curtain, as if it were only a distant pain. Her hands clutched at Owlman's cape, holding it in a death-grip, and it was as if her fingers were trying to tear straight through the curiously tough fabric. A leathered thumb was massaging the area behind her ear, and a great shudder ran through the girl; he whispered things in her ear (all meaningless), just above that steadily roving thumb. Owlman switched to the other side of her face as the blade ran its way back down the fresh gash into the last unblemished corner: that half's turn.
She didn't mean to, really she didn't, but Buffy felt one of her hands leave the cape, and edge near the finished side of her face; trembling fingers touched, feeling nothing but wet and sticky at first. They moved closer, and felt the weird bumpiness of torn flesh. The other hand that remained with the cloak twisted the fabric tighter, and the owlarang went on and on.
The kids at school spoke with horrified relish over how Gotham's first psycho vigilante in recent memory had his face all carved up, and they would swap scar stories, ranging from pissing off the mob to the more whimsical and unreal, i.e. fucking a man with hooks for hands. Then, Buffy wondered if hers could possibly be exactly like his, if Owlman would make a perfect copy--hold on. The girl could not believe she could sense a variation in the cut of the blade, had the presence of mind to notice the parting of the skin differed from the very first time: there, at the very end, she felt the metal tip spin and curl around--and then it broke loose with barely a whisper, and Buffy slumped into Owlman's waiting arms. He lifted her chin and made her look at him, but made no comment when she only stared at him through half-lidded eyes; she didn't really want to seen any of his face anymore, any of him, really.
His mouth moved imperceptibly, and not only could the girl not comprehend, she couldn't even hear the sound of his words, and then--and then...
What did Owlman expect? Would he remake the clown again and again in whomever he found? Thin and slight and green-eyed like how he had been, with a bounce in the step and an easy smile and a light that he would take pleasure in trying to blot out from the world? The girl who cost him his favored toy at least fit in a fashion. The full weight of his surveillance of the clown had shifted to her immediately after his death, after he had confirmed it, then carted off his body and arranged through his connections at Arkham for a private, abandoned, roped off cell for him. Eventually, Owlman had disrobed the Body, neatly folding each article of clothing after carefully removing every knife and other assorted knick knacks, even trying to save the lint (which were filed away in a small chest that had belonged to his mother, he had searched that box out and stole it from his father's collection); the gadgets he set up in his labs for analysis (and when that was done, they were safely archived). Then after taking in every inch of the Body (stroking the scars one last time), drawing more samples of blood (experiments with cloning down the line, but so much room for trial and error) he torched it, the flames devouring that Body reflected in his eyes, dancing in them. It was rather beautiful, the fire; and in them, he saw the flames shape into that clown, the contour of his figure waving with the life of the flame--there, at least, he was alive once more. Owlman made sure the rest of the asylum burned as well, and all those in it, inmate and personnel alike, excluding the few able to escape (and his anger only rose, since that was too rash, the whole building, Arkham was still of incredible use, and how long would it take to replace the damn thing).
After the girl's expiration date (for she would surely expire), would he find others of temperament similar to the original, destroy them and wait for them to reconstruct, expecting to get the same reaction again and again, that of a shattered creature jumping back up and biting in return? The chances of capturing that certain challenge and joy again were astronomically unlikely, and pondering that had only riled his anger even more.
Yes, Owlman would remake him again and again, until he returned that chunk of himself the clown had run off with, laughing all the while, until that gnawing, grinding emptiness was finally filled and abated.
Owlman left the girl sliding down onto the floor, and a glance at her new smile lightened something within. Then his eyes shot to the scattered pieces of some cheap gaudy charm bracelet around her white limp wrist. He considered them for a bit, then pocketed each one (no matter the actual nature of their quality, how like pearls they were).
When Buffy woke up, she felt the emptiness on her wrist: where was that old bracelet she and Mom made when she was little and following the instructions from some Play-Doh activity book? She couldn't really ask any of the nurses or the doctor, the bandages made it too hard, thick and suffocating around her mouth (and honestly, her throat felt all dried out). Even if they weren't strapped tightly to the silver bars of the bed, her hands felt too tired to write any messages out. They told her Dad had been called, and she had been tempted then to try scrawling her feelings out, that she didn't want him, he was never around anyway, go back and hide from me like you always do. But Buffy decided that was too petulant, and just let it pass by, unexcitedly waiting. Police and social services again, even if her Dad had been contacted, and they were really mixing all together this time, looking almost indistinguishable from the next; the hospital staff soon blended in just as well. Someone new, therapists--those too faded into the featureless mass of those representing the Establishment parading around her hospital room.
Only Commissioner Wayne stood out (she had read his badge) and he hadn't said anything to her yet; just stared at her real sadly, real sorry-looking (and Buffy recalled old news items were they pondered a connection between the Commissioner and the freak vigilante element, but only half-heartedly).
And this other guy stood out too, a British man, a Doctor Quentin Travers. And Buffy really zeroed in on the story he had to tell. His knowledge about the killer girl part of her nightmares. She had to know if it were all true, if the most important part was for real, so she pushed her arm up as hard as she could--and the straps broke along with the bars snapping off with a clang and toppling onto the floor with an even louder bang.
"You would do well to be more discreet; but don't worry, no one will disturb us over this," replied Travers quietly, referring to the racket Buffy made, and she knew instantly (and with apathy) that the man had secret ninja operatives or something like that to make the whole Calling the Slayer Thing covert. Interested in pressing her luck, Buffy ripped off the other strap along with its own bar that jangled loudly from the separation--but, at least, she made sure the broken metal thing made no noise as she lowered it gently on the ground.
Polite and British, Travers angled his head slightly, looking away as Buffy tore the bandages from her face; his eyes remained averted as he handed her the mirror she demanded. In the reflection, she watched herself trace the grinning scar, pick at the stitches and finally scratch at the surrounding skin that had been itching for a real long time. He heard no noise from the Slayer, and followed her as she swiftly made her exit, staying behind her. He showed her the van, all its starter weaponry and such, and though his men eyed her warily, they all let her do as she pleased initially: it had all been discussed before after reviewing her recent turbulent history, and Travers stood by his judgment, of letting her own mind welcome the Slayer instinct.
Buffy knew he would be tracking her, knew he had eyes everywhere, knew that he would know immediately that she had discharged herself from Gotham General with a little help from her new Boss. (She saw no reason whatsoever to argue her 'Destiny'--what else would she be doing now anyway?) Still, the girl grabbed some random mugger--human, definitely human, his arms broke so easily under hands; she let him live though, didn't need to kill him to spread him out on the search light, turn the switch and voila--his shadow warped into something sorta owl-shaped in the sky, though she had to admit it resembled more a bat than anything else (her official Watcher, Wesley, had stuttered to her question, that most vampires don't normally turn into bats, unless aided by some magick, and magick made about as much sense as vampires).
And so the mugger lived and was later deposited at the police station; he was human after all, and Buffy had already promised to kill only one of those.
The struggle was brief, the Slayer still took Owlman by surprise, even if he had probably been monitoring her extensively at the hospital and pilfered some of her blood samples, and could've seen the physical change in her, though not in time.
She made it quick, didn't want to give him any chance at all for gaining the upper hand--with the mugger-made-owl-slash-bat-signal blindfolded and gagged, she beat Gotham's King to death, the crunch of his skull sending chills and vibrations down her arms, her whole body.
The next day, sickeningly bright, the girl threw the Body over, the rope going taught as Owlman hung facing City Hall, his face painted white, his mouth finally carved into its very own smile (Buffy had used one of his owlarangs) and smeared with blood and deep red lipstick (that had been her Mom's favorite shade). Nailed to his chest (with the weirdest-looking knife in the Council's mobile armory) was a Joker card.
Buffy didn't wait to see the image burned on every TV screen in Gotham, immediately had Wesley drive her the hell out of there (Travers and the rest of his goons would return to merry ol' England). From then on the Slayer followed her Watcher's orders, only too grateful to be allowed free reign for her heart's dearest desire.
…
"So, who actually did it?"
Billy Idol's vampire inspiration feels a chill go down his spine.
No wonder the Slayer never laughs, with it sounding like that (like shards of glass being pulled out; more like weeping than anything else, and Spike doesn't like the way it makes him want to pick her up and shelter her from any owls or bats or whatever-morality clowns out there).
…
Only the sound and feel of her neck snapping shuts away the laugh (and the curtain falls).
The Master stares down at the sad little Harlequin Slayer.
end