Author: Restive Nature (aka Bavite)
Disclaimer: The characters and fictional placings of either of these shows do not belong to me. They belong to Cameron/ Eglee (Dark Angel), Joss Whedon (BtVS) and Whedon/ Greenwalt (AtS). Only the story belongs to me.
Rating: PG-13 (for now)
Genre: Crossover of DA/ BtVS
Type: WiP
Timeline/ Spoilers: Post Season 5 for Buffy. Up to LAtR for DA. Story set in DA time.
Summary: BtVS/ DA crossover. Life brings about so many changes. Especially when one has just risen from the dead.
Chapter Thirteen
May 24th, 2021
Motel room, Los Angeles
Morning
“How long is she gonna be like this?” Max demanded in a harsh whisper. Alec rolled his eyes. The same question, in various forms had been uttered by her all morning. And it wasn’t as if he knew for certain. Hell, he wasn’t sure that even after what they’d seen, that they’d ever understand the emotional and physical magnitude of what Buffy had been through. It gave him a headache just contemplating the physical act of her resurrection. He didn’t even want to delve into the mental mindfuck of being dead and coming alive again on other levels.
“I don’t know Max,” he rasped out. They’d stayed up late, trying to soothe Buffy from her waking nightmare. But after her emotional admittance of momentary defeat, her face had gone stony and she had refused to respond to anything. Finally they’d called a halt, all of them exhausted in various ways. “It’s not as if Manticore slipped me a booklet of ETA’s on recovery time for the mentally ill and emotionally disturbed.
Logan’s eyes hardened as he overheard this harsh conversation. He moved over to the other pair, his eyes blazing with anger. So many instances of their own problems flitted through his mind. They’d all had emotional and physical trauma heaped upon them. And they all let each other slide when it came to things like that. He didn’t talk about his disability, how it had devastated him and his life. Max didn’t talk too much about the effect of losing her siblings, or having to make choices that took them out of her life. Logan wasn’t quite as sure what pained Alec, but knowing what he knew of Manticore, he knew there had to be something there. And what he did know, of Rachel, well, it simply occurred to Logan that none of them had room to throw stones.
Especially since of them all, Logan could only imagine that Max had come close to what Buffy had recently endured. Dying only to live again. But that was surely for such a short period that the effects of it weren’t catastrophic in their scope. “Guys,” he whispered loudly. Both Max and Alec turned their heads towards him. “Lay off,” he ordered. Alec nodded as Max sighed and rolled her eyes. Logan pressed his lips together, longing to berate them, but he’d recognized immediately that the urge to lay into them was coming from his own feeling of nervousness. It wouldn’t help any of them, Buffy especially if they were at each other’s throats. It would just make the long drive home unbearable.
“Sorry,” Max apologized stiltedly. Before either man acknowledged her word, she turned and made her way to her luggage. She pulled forth a change of clothes and disappeared into the bathroom, the door shutting softly behind her. The click of the lock being engaged echoed through the room. Alec and Logan continued to stare at each other, each measuring the other. Finally Logan broke away and approached his cousin. He took a seat at the edge, careful not to get too close. While she hadn’t damaged Max’s cheek too badly, just scratching it in her panicked response the evening before, Logan didn’t want to provoke her.
“Buffy?” he waited for her to glance up, but there was no response. “It’s getting late. That woman hasn’t called. So we’re heading back to Seattle as soon as we can be ready.”
Both men were shocked when she did lift her eyes to him and murmur, “okay.” Then her head drooped back down and Logan turned back to glance at Alec. The blonde man just shrugged. He certainly didn’t know what to expect of her right now. Logan sucked in a deep breathe and then rose from the bed to make sure that he had everything that he’d brought with him. Alec followed suit in the silence that was only broken by the sound of the shower running beyond the closed bathroom door.
Half an hour later, they were ready to go. Buffy was again wearing borrowed clothes from Max, though her feet were bare. Logan had suggested stopping and getting some more shoes, since she didn’t want to wear Max’s extra runners, but Buffy surprised him by telling him just to go. Somehow she’d come to terms with leaving, but Alec suspected that she’d told Logan so because she was still tempted to stay.
They fell into a pattern the few days it took them to get back to Seattle, but it was one filled with unease and half-spoken sentences. There were things that couldn’t be said, with Buffy around who was unaware of transgenics and Logan’s alter ego of Eyes Only. There were things that no one wanted to say, like the thought of Willow’s demise that weighed heavily. And there were plans and accommodations that no one seemed inclined to make. Finally an unspoken agreement seemed to be reached that things would work themselves out when they arrived.
May 24th, 2021
Breaker’s Woods, Sunnydale
Early evening
“Oh my Goddess,” Tara breathed as the trio of travelers broke into the clearing that housed their friend’s grave. There was a slightly strangled gasp from behind her. Most likely from Cordy, judging by the tone. All three of them were stunned into immobility when they saw the remains of what should have been smooth earth and untouched reverence.
“What the hell happened here?” Angel demanded hoarsely. He crept forward, barely noticing that the two women stayed behind a little way. He sank to his knees, his eyes trained on the massive seeming upheaval of the ground. It hadn’t been simply dug up in a methodic manner. No, the ground had erupted. Forcing himself to lean forward, he choked on a breath. The coffin was empty. And not only was it empty, it had been splintered apart… from the inside.
“Angel?” Cordy asked quietly, her arms encircling herself. She tilted her head to the side, pondering what to do next. The entire car ride from Los Angeles had been a bundle of contradictions for her. She wanted to go, discover what had happened. But there was disquiet clenching her heart, making it difficult to breath. In a burst of momentary anger, she let go of her ribs and twisted her hands together, worrying her fingers as she stalked forward.
Tara was stunned out of her immobility when Cordelia stomped forward. She was surprised that she was as emotionally invested as she was at this moment. By the time that Buffy had died, she was only just beginning to feel as if her presence within the Scooby gang was solidifying. And only because she had been such a large part of Willow’s life. She honestly didn’t think that without her place as Willow’s girlfriend, the group would have given her the time of day.
But Buffy had been important to her girlfriend, ergo she had become important to Tara. Not just as a friend, but as Savior. Tara understood on an intrinsic level, instinctual really, about how important Buffy, as the Slayer, was to this world. And now, she owed it to the memory of that woman, all of them, really, to discover what had happened. She followed the taller brunette to Angel’s side. As one, they peered over the ragged edge of the grave, both Cordy and Tara giving in to the horrific gasp as they strove to assimilate what they were looking at.
“H-how…” Cordy stammered out, her eyebrows coming together in consternation. “What the hell happened here?”
“Precisely what I was wondering,” a heavily accented Russian voice rang out. The trio spun around, various small weapons falling to their hands naturally. They might have been gone from the Hellmouth, but you could never take the memories and caution of it away from them. A smallish, thin man stepped out from behind a large tree. His face was weather beaten, though the aristocratic definition of his features told of his Slavic antecedents clearly. His hair was black, though there was gray peppering his temples and shot through his Vandyke beard. He was wearing an impeccably tailored suit, though it looked as if he’d slept in it for a few days. The newcomer eyed them all with a wary apprehension. But a look of hunger on his face.
“And who the hell are you?” Angel demanded, edging himself forward so that if it came down to it, he could protect the women. Not that he ever believed them unable. But time and trauma still hadn’t dulled the centuries old instinct that had been drilled into him from birth.
The older man studied the trio for a moment. His eyes roamed over the various degrees of weapons they carried. All three were holding at least one stake, possibly with more concealed. There was a vial of holy water protruding from the pocket of the light haired woman’s jacket. The darker haired woman was holding a miniature crossbow, and had shaken her coat and hair back so that the cross she wore at her neck gleamed in the rising moonlight that slithered its way through the dense trees. The man sighed as he took a carefully calculated step forward. The weapons came up, in answer to his movement. And while the crossbow might look like something a child would play with, as a range weapon, it was the first to get his attention.
He held his hands out peaceably. “My name is Pietr Voskovic and I have come to… to.” He trailed off. He knew why he had come. But could he really explain it to these strangers. Of course, their preparedness had given him a good clue to the fact that they were familiar with the daily aspects of what his life had become. But of course, they might be amateurs, who’d stumbled upon the existence of vampires by pure chance. It was a common occurrence. There was a moment of silence as the blonde looked enquiringly at him. Then realization dawned upon her.
“Oh! You’re a-a Watcher?” she demanded. Pietr looked shocked for a moment, but realized that the other two seemed on the verge of relaxing their vigilance, depending on his answer. And in memory of her, he could only answer the truth.
“I was,” he confirmed with a slow, sad nod. He glanced away from the group, to his displeasure, his eyes were misting over. “My Slayer, Tania… she died. Two days ago.”
“I’m sorry,” Angel murmured carefully. Pietr nodded and there was silence as he quickly strove to regain his composure. Once he’d straightened himself out, the brunette took charge.
“But if your Slayer’s dead, why are you here?” Cordy demanded. “Then she looked back at the grave. “Or did she die here? Did we miss another apocalypse?” Pietr frowned at her. She sounded almost… disappointed.
“No, no,” he assured her quickly. “She died in Russia.”
“Okay,” Angel nodded. He, to the casual eye, crossed his arms over his broad chest, but Pietr could see that he was still ready to spring to action. A true warrior, ready to battle from any given moment or position. The other were similarly stanced, a weary readiness coiling through all three of them. They had seen many battles, he was sure of it. “But,” Angel continued on, “that still doesn’t answer the question as to why you are here. Now.”
Pietr cleared his throat. The longer he was around this threesome, the more he believed that he should know them. There was something commanding about their presences. But he fought against the urge to pour out his tale. Grief had its place in the life of a Watcher, but it was not out in the field.
“I am sorry,” he apologized politely, if coolly. “But I can not divulge my reasoning on such short acquaintance. Suffice to say that I am here and will do what I must.”
But the blonde was more canny than he realized. “Wait,” she breathed out as the others quickly turned to her. “He was a Watcher. His Slayer died. The next must have been called.” She paused as she turned to take in the disrupted ground behind them. “And now he’s here.” Tara’s hand shakily covered her mouth. “Oh my Goddess.”
Everyone’s eyes widened. Angel and Cordy, from realizing that once again, that Buffy, who had been dead for twenty years, was once again The Slayer. Pietr of course, was amazed that she’d put together his motivation to make this trip so quickly. They were well aware of Slayers and Watchers indeed if they knew of the process this intimately.
“Angel,” Tara spoke his name softly and gestured for him to follow her away from Pietr. But on the calm night, the name carried to his ears all the same. And Pietr felt a cold chill run through his heart. Of course he knew these people. They were legends in their own rights. As soon as he’d heard the name, Angel, all of his research and learning came rushing back to him. Angel, formerly Angelus, Scourge of Europe, reformed Vampire. There was more, of course, as the interest in Angelus had never waned.
The one talking with him was the renowned Wiccan, Tara Maclay, founder of the Lamia Portus Commune. The commune had once provided information to help stop an apocalypse years ago, that even so, had still claimed the life of a Slayer and many innocents before collapsing in upon itself. The commune had no interest whatsoever in maintaining a working relationship with the Council of Watchers. But they were above the pettiness of letting innocents suffer just because they opposed how the Council ran their business.
And the last Pietr realized, was of course, Angelus’ partner. The one that defied all odds, much like her Slayer friend had. The half-demon Seer, Cordelia Chase-O’Connor. She was well known to the Council as well because of the way she’d run roughshod over them many times in her ambition to save as many of the helpless as she could from what she’d termed their ‘bumbling, ancient-ass, Tweed wearing, tea-sipping, joke of a plan ways’. And the fact that she’d birthed a Goddess. No one was ever quite sure how that one had come about, and she certainly wasn’t talking about it.
But before he could continue the internal cataloguing of these people before him, Cordelia was sidling up to him. He noted that her crossbow was still resting easily in her hand. “So?” she drawled out, one eye on him, the other on the duo conversing rapidly and quietly away from them. “How’s your Slayer die? Was it a big slimy demon? Or a pack of Vamp’s roaming the snowy streets of Leningrad?”
“No,” Pietr whispered harshly, averting his eyes. The guilt in his role in Tania’s death would forever haunt him. He had accepted that already. “It was… The Cruciamentum.”
Chapter Fourteen
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