Into a Bar
I have a bunch of posts due soon, so spreading them out. Here's my entry for intoabar, the crossover ficathon.
Title Impossible Things Before Breakfast
Author Brutti ma buoni
Prompt Illyria walks into a bar and meets Chuck Shurley
Fandoms Angel the Series/Supernatural
Word count 800
Rating/contents PG. Just a conversation, but it covers many implied character deaths, semi-canonically.
It wasn’t so much the Restaurant At The End of The Universe as the Roadhouse Imperceptible To Time And Space. No talking cattle here. No Beeblebrox and suicide ships. Just Chuck, and a half-decent burger, and a beer. Lots of beer.
He looked down, occasionally, at the Earth. It seemed okay, which was nice. But he was pretty much done worrying about that little gig. Some things, you just have to let go. And now he didn’t have the angel voices and the prophecy, now he was just alone with his Chuck-thoughts, he had time to be himself.
Chuck was discovering he kind of hated himself. At least, being alone with himself. Hence: beer. And hence, talking to the others who made it to the Roadhouse. They were usually a pretty interesting bunch.
The new woman appeared pretty normal until she turned blue at the edges. It was a surprise. Which was pleasant: Chuck hadn't been surprised about anything supernatural for months.
"You want a drink?" He wasn't even looking for trouble, but she was interesting. Interesting in a non-angelic kind of way.
“Alcohol is a poison,” she said, sounding like a very particular Baptist on KZXL who Chuck had always hated. “Yes. Give me the poison.”
“Ooookay,” he paused after waving at the barkeep to keep it coming. Not really his line, scenario-wise, but: “Bad day?”
“I was awakened from an infinite sleep to find my immortal armies destroyed, my palace scattered, my powers too much for this pitiful shell. My Qwa-ha-xhans were mortal, and weak. My friends are dead. We did not stop the Apocalypse.”
“Huh. Coulda just said yes,” said Chuck, wishing he hadn’t started this. “Although, for what it’s worth? Can’t stop the Apocalypse. Believe me, I’ve met guys who have tried. Like, a lot.”
“I also. The fools.” The blue woman drank, viciously, emptying the bottle in a few minutes' concentrated silence. Chuck half expected to see sheered off glass when she loosed the bottle neck. But it was only her blue lips, a flash of white teeth close to a grimace. No bottle chomping here. “Give me more poison. I wish to forget.”
"You can try," he said, calmly. "But it doesn’t work. Forgetting isn't a booze kind of a thing."
"Then what is? I must forget." The desperation in that freaked Chuck out. He felt as though thunder should have rolled, the building shaking. As if this woman should have more impact. And if she felt that way, all the time… He edged the barstool a little further away.
"I, uh. I don't know. I could never forget my guys. And I've tried."
"Who were yours?" As she said it, the woman seemed to flicker. She sounded a little more Texas, a little less Smurf God. It suited her, but she looked sadder. "Mine were men. And vampires. And a demon, though I'm pretty sure he's okay in body. Pretty much broke his spirit, though. The others, not so much. They died fighting a dragon."
There was a silence. The woman drank again.
Chuck said, "Mine were men. Oh, and an angel. And a buttload of other angels wanted in. But mostly men."
"They died?"
"Not all of 'em."
"And you watched."
"Yep." He drank again.
They sat, silently.
"We have much in common," she said, eventually. "We should meet our minds. I am Illyria, God King of the Primordium. Mortals tremble before me." She looked bluer than ever.
He thought, absently, just how much Becky would shit herself to meet Illyria. Then he realised the God King (which, whatever, that was definitely not her original body, even if her was the right pronoun for whatever she was) was waiting for him to respond.
"Uh, hi? I'm Chuck. The Prophet Chuck." It didn't sound as good as the Primordium thing. He added, "Some people say I'm God."
"Are you?" She looked underwhelmed. But then, consider what she had just said she was. And she was sure of that.
"I'm not sure," he said, honestly. "I think God should know himself, mostly. But then, I'm not sure who or what I am, or why I winked out at the Apocalypse. So, you know, maybe?"
"But you don't believe it." She said it distantly. "You do not smell of divinity. But then, this nose knows so little of modern gods."
He nodded. "Thought not. I think God should be more comfortable with the crap that happens to the little people. I am… not."
She drank, hard, again. Then turned to look at him fully, burning blue eyes apparently looking straight through his mortal body. "Yes. Gods should be above such mortal concerns. And yet… I am a God. And I am not."
They drank some more. It didn't help. You can float far above mortal concerns for eternity. But when you meet heroes, you don't forget.
***
Title Impossible Things Before Breakfast
Author Brutti ma buoni
Prompt Illyria walks into a bar and meets Chuck Shurley
Fandoms Angel the Series/Supernatural
Word count 800
Rating/contents PG. Just a conversation, but it covers many implied character deaths, semi-canonically.
It wasn’t so much the Restaurant At The End of The Universe as the Roadhouse Imperceptible To Time And Space. No talking cattle here. No Beeblebrox and suicide ships. Just Chuck, and a half-decent burger, and a beer. Lots of beer.
He looked down, occasionally, at the Earth. It seemed okay, which was nice. But he was pretty much done worrying about that little gig. Some things, you just have to let go. And now he didn’t have the angel voices and the prophecy, now he was just alone with his Chuck-thoughts, he had time to be himself.
Chuck was discovering he kind of hated himself. At least, being alone with himself. Hence: beer. And hence, talking to the others who made it to the Roadhouse. They were usually a pretty interesting bunch.
The new woman appeared pretty normal until she turned blue at the edges. It was a surprise. Which was pleasant: Chuck hadn't been surprised about anything supernatural for months.
"You want a drink?" He wasn't even looking for trouble, but she was interesting. Interesting in a non-angelic kind of way.
“Alcohol is a poison,” she said, sounding like a very particular Baptist on KZXL who Chuck had always hated. “Yes. Give me the poison.”
“Ooookay,” he paused after waving at the barkeep to keep it coming. Not really his line, scenario-wise, but: “Bad day?”
“I was awakened from an infinite sleep to find my immortal armies destroyed, my palace scattered, my powers too much for this pitiful shell. My Qwa-ha-xhans were mortal, and weak. My friends are dead. We did not stop the Apocalypse.”
“Huh. Coulda just said yes,” said Chuck, wishing he hadn’t started this. “Although, for what it’s worth? Can’t stop the Apocalypse. Believe me, I’ve met guys who have tried. Like, a lot.”
“I also. The fools.” The blue woman drank, viciously, emptying the bottle in a few minutes' concentrated silence. Chuck half expected to see sheered off glass when she loosed the bottle neck. But it was only her blue lips, a flash of white teeth close to a grimace. No bottle chomping here. “Give me more poison. I wish to forget.”
"You can try," he said, calmly. "But it doesn’t work. Forgetting isn't a booze kind of a thing."
"Then what is? I must forget." The desperation in that freaked Chuck out. He felt as though thunder should have rolled, the building shaking. As if this woman should have more impact. And if she felt that way, all the time… He edged the barstool a little further away.
"I, uh. I don't know. I could never forget my guys. And I've tried."
"Who were yours?" As she said it, the woman seemed to flicker. She sounded a little more Texas, a little less Smurf God. It suited her, but she looked sadder. "Mine were men. And vampires. And a demon, though I'm pretty sure he's okay in body. Pretty much broke his spirit, though. The others, not so much. They died fighting a dragon."
There was a silence. The woman drank again.
Chuck said, "Mine were men. Oh, and an angel. And a buttload of other angels wanted in. But mostly men."
"They died?"
"Not all of 'em."
"And you watched."
"Yep." He drank again.
They sat, silently.
"We have much in common," she said, eventually. "We should meet our minds. I am Illyria, God King of the Primordium. Mortals tremble before me." She looked bluer than ever.
He thought, absently, just how much Becky would shit herself to meet Illyria. Then he realised the God King (which, whatever, that was definitely not her original body, even if her was the right pronoun for whatever she was) was waiting for him to respond.
"Uh, hi? I'm Chuck. The Prophet Chuck." It didn't sound as good as the Primordium thing. He added, "Some people say I'm God."
"Are you?" She looked underwhelmed. But then, consider what she had just said she was. And she was sure of that.
"I'm not sure," he said, honestly. "I think God should know himself, mostly. But then, I'm not sure who or what I am, or why I winked out at the Apocalypse. So, you know, maybe?"
"But you don't believe it." She said it distantly. "You do not smell of divinity. But then, this nose knows so little of modern gods."
He nodded. "Thought not. I think God should be more comfortable with the crap that happens to the little people. I am… not."
She drank, hard, again. Then turned to look at him fully, burning blue eyes apparently looking straight through his mortal body. "Yes. Gods should be above such mortal concerns. And yet… I am a God. And I am not."
They drank some more. It didn't help. You can float far above mortal concerns for eternity. But when you meet heroes, you don't forget.
***