FIC: An Attractive Force (BtVS/AtS, Fred/Kennedy, PG)
TITLE: An Attractive Force
RATING: PG
FANDOMS: Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Angel
PAIRING: Fred/Kennedy
SUMMARY: Kennedy is the new Slayer-in-residence at Wolfram and Hart. But she spends most of her time in Fred’s lab.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Post-BtVS; set during AtS S5. Written for the femslash_minis Kennedy round for kwritten who requested alternative weapon construction, playground swings, and starlight.
ALSO: Yes, I did build a trebuchet in 8th grade science class. For those of you who were wondering.
Kennedy sat on a lab table in the Wolfram and Hart R&D department, watching Fred solder together pieces of a Radio Flyer.
“You literally have millions of dollars at your disposal, and you’re making weapons out of a defenseless children’s toy?” Kennedy said.
Fred shrugged. “Old habits. Anyway, you have literally millions of dollars at your disposal, and you still dress like that.”
Kennedy’s nose wrinkled. She was generally inclined to defend herself from attacks, but Fred wasn’t wrong.
“So,” Kennedy said, “what’s the different between a catapult and a-whatever it is you’re making?”
“A trebuchet,” Fred said, twisting on an eye screw on the trigger. “A catapult’s energy comes from torsion. Trebuchets work using gravity.”
“Huh,” Kennedy said. She kicked her feet. “It’ll still kill things, though, right?”
“That,” Fred said with her crooked smile, “will depend on you.”
***
Kennedy had been the Slayer-in-residence at the Los Angeles branch of Wolfram and Hart for six months. If you’d asked her, back before the First, where she’d be in the next year, private security for corporate monsters wouldn’t have made the list, but she actually enjoyed the gig. It was nice being the only Slayer. Kennedy was used to getting her way, and uncomfortable with sharing the spotlight; the job was actually a perfect fit for her.
Plus, there was Fred.
Kennedy hadn’t met a lot of people like Fred. She recognized the ways in which Fred was like Willow-they were both brilliant, nerdy, shy women to who had adjusted to a life of monsters and magic surprisingly well. And after things with Willow ended, some people would say that Kennedy was just rebounding with a Willow clone, but Kennedy knew the truth: she had a type. And Fred had a type, too; Kennedy wasn’t too off from Angel in the category of supernatural brunets with mommy issues. But that was dating, wasn’t it? Two people wading through archetypes and parsing through bullshit until you found someone you liked.
And Kennedy liked Fred.
***
Setting up the trebuchet in a city as busy and bright as Los Angeles, even in a cemetery at night, took some doing.
“I think we’ve really lost the element of surprise,” Kennedy said as she helped Fred adjust the sling.
“Good thing we’ve got a Slayer,” Fred said, and beamed at her.
Fred had explained the kyrumption thing when explaining to Kennedy who the girl in the coma was; Fred didn’t count herself a warrior, but all Kennedy knew was they fought the good fight together; warrior was just a word from Greek mythology. It was plain that Fred worshipped warriors the same way Kennedy admired braniacs.
The demon requiring the trebuchet had been identified as a South African breed Kennedy couldn’t pronounce. The pesky little buggers had infiltrated LA like lice, and what was worse, they couldn’t be touched; their skin was highly toxic. Kennedy still had burns on her skin from her last encounter with the little beasts.
She had identified a nest in an abandoned building up in the Hollywood hills. The obvious solution was fire, but the neighborhood was well-guarded enough that they couldn’t get away with arson in the traditional sense.
Luckily, Fred was creative.
They positioned the trebuchet using Fred’s coordinates, and primed it for launch. Kennedy squinted at the map, and hoped that Fred was really, really sure where they were going to shoot a burning mass of lumber-they could accidentally burn down some starlet’s mansion if they weren’t careful. But then trust set in, and Kennedy just made the adjustments Fred requested.
When everything was primed, they loaded the throwing arm with lumber. Fred stood back as Kennedy doused the wood with lighter fluid and then lit it, the fire mirrored in Fred’s glasses.
Fred held the string arming the trigger mechanism. “Ready?”
Kennedy grinned. “Geronimo, baby.”
Fred pulled; the trigger released. Against the dark sky, the burning missile was like a firework.
Kennedy pushed Fred’s glasses up her nose, and Fred smiled.
***
Fred’s coordinates were right on the money. They sat for a while and watched the abandoned building burn. Kennedy would check for survivors in the morning, but right now she was enjoying the thrill of victory.
Once the flames had been extinguished, leaving the building empty and charred, they packed up the trebuchet, sending it home with some lackeys from Wolfram and Hart. As for Fred and Kennedy, they opted to walk home.
It was a lovely night in Los Angeles, if you didn’t count buildings spontaneously going up in flames.
Kennedy was more interested in viewing Fred than the neighborhood they were walking through, but something caught Fred’s eye, and she came to a stop, her thin fingers wrapping around Kennedy’s wrist.
“Hey,” Fred said, “a playground.”
Kennedy followed Fred past the gate.
Maybe it was a Child’s Play, Children of the Corn, Pet Sematery thing, but the playground at night was much more disturbing to Kennedy than the cemetery had been. Of course, the cemetery was kind of her office, and she hadn’t even liked kids when she’d been one. But the empty playthings, lit only by starlight and the yellow gleam of the streetlights, seemed sinister. Fred didn’t seem to notice.
A row of swing sets lined one end of the playground, and Fred ran to them, grinning. Kennedy watched in amusement as Fred pulled her thin frame up into one of the rubber seats. She pushed off the ground, her hair flying behind her as she swung.
Gravity? What gravity? Kennedy thought as she watched the stars glinting off Fred’s glasses, the muscles in Fred’s legs pumping to get the swing higher and higher. But it was a rhetorical question; Kennedy knew gravity. Gravity was falling; gravity was an attractive force. Gravity was the way Kennedy’s heart behaved watching Fred on the swing set.
Yes. Gravity was pretty okay in Kennedy’s book.