Queen of the Tentacles

Random updates

bogwitch@livejournal.com — Thu, 17 Dec 2009 20:53:17 GMT

1. The good news is that my throat isn't sore anymore, the bad is that my nose is full of goo.

2. Now I have worshipped at the altar of Depeche Mode once more, I can be complete again.

3. I don't think the cat likes me anymore. Plus she has a lump on her head.

4. I think I've killed my dishwasher. Eek!

5. Snow! In December! Could it be..,?

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Question of the Day...

bogwitch@livejournal.com — Tue, 01 Dec 2009 19:49:09 GMT

Do I waste an hour and a half watching Mega-Shark v Giant Octopus? And will I be upset if the shark wins?

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More cat pics

bogwitch@livejournal.com — Mon, 30 Nov 2009 20:44:29 GMT

hesadevil requested pictures of Tegan (um, last week), so... okay then!

With my dad the night she was rescued:

One relieved cat attached to my leg for a day:

A fatal attraction:

Excuse the mess, most of it is covering a puzzle to stop her eating the pieces:

Fic: Working My Way Back to You - Chapter Thirty-One - Warpath

bogwitch@livejournal.com — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 19:25:58 GMT

Hopefully the cat will leave me alone long enough to post this.

This was meant to have been posted last Tuesday, but events and an accident where I managed to wipe the finished copy off my flash-drive prevented it being posted sooner.

Working My Way Back To You

No characters were harmed in the making of this fic. They do not belong to me, but are the property of Fox Entertainment and Mutant Enemy.

Summary: Spike/Buffy. Post-Chosen, Post Hellbound. What did you think the First Evil was doing after the closure of the Hellmouth? Knitting evil jumpers?

Thanks to myfeetshowit for her beta work again.

Keep up in PDF! WORKING MY WAY BACK TO YOU IN PDF Just like a book might be, only better!

A brief recap of events...

Spike was resurrected by Angel, Wesley and Fred in Wolfham and Hart using a mysterious disc that remade him from the matter of the universe. The only problem was The First was stuck in his body with him. Captured by Bringers, Spike and The First were separated and both head to England to get to Buffy. Now they need to get rid of The First before it comes through on its promise to sacrifice Buffy to open the Deeper Well. Spike has volunteered to be returned to the amulet, taking The First with him, but Buffy isn't very pleased about that. They argue, ergo sex ensues. Meanwhile, Willow has been working out the mechanics of the spell she needs to do. It is agreed they will do it at a stone circle called The Dancers. Buffy is still not happy and takes events into her own hands by going after The First on her own...

The woods themselves were quiet, too still and silent to be quite right. The hush once again watchful; no birds sang, nothing living rustled the undergrowth, not even the wind or the rain rustled the thickets of trees, but still Buffy felt as if many eyes were on her, guiding her progress, a silent escort making sure she got to where they needed her to be. Let them, she thought. This wasn’t a secret assault after all; she wanted The First to know she was coming.

She had just stuck out along the path when a voice hollered out of the dark, “Who goes there!”

Buffy froze in mid-step.

Okay, she wasn’t trying to be stealthy and her million candle torch lit up the night like a beacon declaring ‘Hello, Slayer here, come and find me!’ but with the vampire army now little more than dust ruining her shoes she had not expected to encounter any trouble out here. The First was supposed to want her at the Well after all.

The challenge had been issued with complete seriousness though, the voice curt and demanding; the speaker obviously meaning to carry out his threat if he didn’t hear the right assurances.

But still… “‘Who goes there’?” she scoffed, unable to help herself. The words were such a cliché. “Who says stuff like that?”

“I do,” said the voice, not so loud this time, but it remained hard and uncompromising. It was a male voice; soft and English, but still forceful, steely and, in its own way, not to be messed with. “Do not ask me any question,” it snapped before she could ask who was speaking.

Huh, odd. Wasn’t the next line supposed to be ‘friend or foe’ or something like that? “Who are you?” she asked, disregarding the request as she looked for the owner of the voice.

Not that she could see very much in the gloom. The darkness pressed in all around her, straightjacket close and impenetrable. Her torch could make little impression; the deep, dense shadows between the trees hungrily swallowed its light. What the beam did show was little more than bramble thickets and twisted, tangled branches that reached down for her from the canopy like grasping fingers. Nothing out there looked capable of making such impolite demands.

“I am called Drogyn, and do I believe I asked you first.” There was a rustle as a man rose up out of the undergrowth and stepped forward like a Shakespearian actor taking the spotlight for his soliloquy. He was carrying a sword and he was pointing it at her in a competent, businesslike way; keeping his distance, but staying wary. This was a man who knew what he was doing: another warrior like her.

Despite the weapon though, Buffy was more caught by his dress-sense, or complete lack of it; here was a guy in serious need of a subscription to GQ. The torch picked out a worn leather surcoat and something that was possibly chainmail poking out from underneath. He looked like an unhorsed knight about eight hundred years out of his rightful historical place and she thought with a nostalgic horror that he might even be some lost Knight of Byzantium looking to bother her again. She’d hoped the nonsense with the Knights was over long ago, yet the sword waving and the demands sounded remarkably familiar.

But a good look at him changed her mind. The Knights, for all their hard living in camp, had never been as scruffy as this guy: like the rest of him, from his damp, unkempt hair to his patchy stubble, his clothes were tatty; well lived in and in desperate need of a good wash. Even better, he should just trash them and start over; maybe in a nice suit. She wondered how long he’d been out here. She hadn’t come across him during any of her other trips to the woods, yet he looked like he hadn’t slept in a proper bed for a month. Maybe he was just good at hiding.

“So Robin Hood,” she said, now certain he wasn’t one of the fanatical Order. “Did you lose the rest of the Fellowship?”

The point of the sword did not waver, even as his voice shook with anger and his eyes squinted at her through the blinding glare of those million candles. “I do not understand. And please stop asking questions! If you ask me anything again, I will cast you down you where you stand.”

Geez. This guy was tetchy. “Nice. I’m Buffy. The Slayer, or one of them anyway, and I’d like to see you try.” She waggled her axe for emphasis, just in case he didn’t believe her, even though it was unlikely that he could even see her behind the blinding torch beam.

Drogyn lowered his sword cautiously, yet she noticed that he did not attempt to sheathe it. “The Slayer?”

“In the flesh.” She shone the torch up into her face to let him see then directed it back at him. “Now why are you here?”

“Lady, please stop asking,” he pleaded, shielding his eyes this time. “I am compelled not to lie.”

“Even better,” she said, pleased that keeping the torch on his face kept him uncomfortable and less likely press his luck with his sword. “Then you can tell me what you know. Are you working for The First?”

“I am Drogyn,” he told her again in a tone that implied the name alone should be enough of an answer.

“Who?” The name meant nothing to Buffy. Giles might have mentioned him to her sometime, but Giles had told her a lot of things she didn’t remember, especially back when she was sixteen and more into dating hot boys then listening to dusty lore she’d assumed she would never use. “Am I supposed to know you?” she asked, “because I have no clue.”

“Some know me as the Battlebrand,” Drogyn said with a sigh. “I am not in the service of The First and nor I do serve any such evil. I answer to higher powers than those. I am the Guardian of the Deeper Well.”

“Guardian?” Puzzled, she continued, “I thought the Watcher’s Council were guarding it. That’s why they built the Retreat, right, to watch the Well?”

Drogyn nodded, trying – and failing – to shift back into the shadows as she tried to keep him pinned with light. “I believe that is so. But the Council only protects the Deeper Well; they are not tied to it, bound to it as I am. I am its Guardian. I have been so for many decades.”

“And a great job you seem to be doing. Aren’t you actually, you know, supposed to be guarding it?” If Drogyn was out here camping in the woods, he wasn’t guarding the Well and if the Well wasn’t guarded anymore… She could walk right in unchallenged, just as The First wanted her to do. That made a nasty kind of sense.

Seemingly coming to a decision, Drogyn cautiously took a pace forward, narrowing the distance between them. Up close she could see there was a hint of a handsome, if filthy, man under the scraggle of unbrushed hair and he was younger than she’d thought, in his thirties perhaps. And there was no way he could have been here for decades unless he was immortal or something. Either that or he had to be using the most fabulous anti-aging cream.

She was so getting the name of that.

“Indeed I should,” he said quietly, conspiratorially. “Yet I was overwhelmed. The First Evil’s forces took the Well and I had to make my retreat out here.”

“Forces?” Buffy asked with a sinking feeling. She hadn’t thought about it much since Willow’s super-charged Tinkerbell spell had turned the army of vampire villagers to dust, but of course The First had access to more than just a few vamps; the spell wouldn’t have killed off its Bringers or any of the other dark things it counted in its retinue. “How many were there?”

He thought for a moment before replying, “Two score, perhaps more.”

Not that his confusing answer helped her much. “Two what? How many is that?”

“Some forty or so maybe.” He looked at her as if she was the one talking like one of King Arthur’s Round Table with the ‘scores’ and the ‘verily’s. “I did not make count of those that fell as my sword was keen and I bested many, but maybe two-thirds still survive.”

“’Bested’?” Buffy smirked.

He ignored her amusement and answered her anyway, “Yes, but alas I was still but too few.”

“Riiight,” said Buffy doubtfully. “And what were they?”

“Some were those twisted beings that serve the darkness, but most were those that do not live. The vampire.”

“Great. Let’s go stop them.” Buffy didn’t know how The First was finding all these people to turn, but it was going to stop right now. And this Drogyn guy was going to help her. He was wild, scruffy and she suspected he’d probably smell really bad if she got too close, but the weary softness in his voice made her trust him. She’d being slaying too long not to recognise evil when she saw it and Drogyn just wasn’t giving her those ‘I want to eat you or destroy the world’ vibes.

“Lady, there are but too many,” he protested. “Even for my sword and your axe…”

“Hey, Slayer here! Vampires are kinda in the job description. Besides,” she added. “I don’t think they’ll stop me.”

Drogyn didn’t look convinced.

“You need help,” she reassured him. “I need to kick The First’s ass. Problem solved.”

“Very well,” Drogyn finally relaxed and sheathed his sword, “but please, no more questions.”

Buffy held up her hands in mock surrender. “Okay. I promise. No more questions. Let’s go.”

Having extracted her promise, Drogyn seemed satisfied. With a nod he turned and led her back the way she’d just trudged. They walked for a short distance, following the path back towards the hedgerow. The tree cover was thinner here by the wood’s edge and the bare branches could catch less of the rain in their outstretched branches. Buffy wiped the water from her nose with a cold hand; the drizzle spritzed her face and her clothes with a fine, persistent mist and in response, she pulled her coat in tighter, not pleased to be back in the wet.

Her torch was giving up too; the batteries were starting to die and dim the beam from a million candles to just a bare few making their last stand against the night. Drogyn carried no torch of his own, but he didn’t seem to need one to find his way. He strode ahead of her with the confidence of someone who knew every tree and sapling, every rise and fall of the land, every unpredictable loop of the path. He knew when to duck each low hanging branch and when to avoid every knotted root lying hidden beneath the encroaching vines.

Buffy felt clumsy in comparison, as she used the ailing torch to pick out the driest ground so she didn’t slip on the patches of muddy earth he’d just strolled through. Dry twigs did not seem to snap under his boots nor did loose stones conspire to turn his ankles; she’d even bet the tendrils of creeping brambles hooking at her legs weren’t scratching at his calves with their tiny thorns.

She was brushing a low branch from her face when Drogyn stopped suddenly. For a moment Buffy thought he’d heard something and she strained to hear what it was that had made him stop, but although she held her breath, there was only a strange, flat silence. Then, before she could ask him why, he was off again, leaving their path without warning down a new track so overgrown she never would have spotted it was there.

“Whe—“ she started, longer having any idea where he was taking her.

“Do not ask!” he shut her down firmly. “You sought the Well. I am taking you to it. This is the quickest path.”

Affronted by his frustrated rudeness and unable to see much in the darkness through the misting rain, all Buffy could do was stumble after him, blindly, carefully, hoping he was right and knew where he going.

“Is the Well far?” she asked, not caring about Drogyn and his problem anymore. She was fed up with not being able to ask anything, it was so hard to get any information out of him otherwise. Add the mud, the endless woods that went on and on and the way even the sky above them seemed troubled, the clouds roiling and rumbling in their disquiet as if they anticipated the fight to come, and she just wanted this to be finished.

Drogyn stopped and glared at her, clamping his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Lady, I warn you now that my threats are not idle.”

“Sorry. I guess the Well isn’t close,” she rephrased gracelessly.

He loosened his posture and dropped his hand away from his weapon. He took a deep, grounding breath then gestured ahead into a clearing that opened up ahead of him. “The Well is here.”

Buffy had seen a lot in her short life, but this was a first, even for her. The ‘Well’ did not look promising. For a start it was a tree. A big tree, granted: a large, elderly oak that spread its boughs towards the turbulent heavens. It dominated the large clearing around it, but in no way could she call the tree a well of any description.

She stopped at the edge of the clearing out of the rain. “You have got to be kidding me. That’s the Well?”

“I assure you this is the right place,” Drogyn replied, walking over to the oak’s mighty trunk and stroking a hand across its bark with something like affection.

“But it’s a tree!” Buffy shook her dying torch, then guided its weak beam up and down the contorted trunk. There wasn’t much to see apart from gnarled, pitted bark. Nope, she wasn’t seeing the wellness here.

“It’s quite roomy once you get inside,” Drogyn told her without irony.

“Inside?” Buffy wondered for a moment if her judgement had been wrong. Maybe Drogyn wasn’t any of what he’d claimed to be and was really just some deranged, tree-hugging, mental patient with a D&D fixation that had somehow been lucky enough to escape becoming one of The First’s vamps. That wasn’t fair though. Drogyn didn’t look deranged, not if you discounted his bad temper and the roughness of his appearance anyway, because there was a fire in his eyes that was more earnest and focused than that.

She gave the tree another look. It was big, yeah, and there was a dark rent that opened like a mouth into the heartwood, but although the trunk’s girth was of chunky proportions and it certainly looked like it could be hollow, it was still going to be a bit too cosy to admit two. No way. She might have decided to trust him, but she had no desire to know Drogyn that well.

“The Old Oak is but a gateway,” he explained, now rubbing a hand almost lovingly around the opening. “The Well is vast. A hole in the earth that passes through realities, dimensions, through the entire world. The Old Ones neither dwelt fully in this realm nor any other, and so they rest in death.” Drogyn turned to her, but his hand never left the tree, as if it grounded him somehow or gave him strength. He certainly seemed a little less irritable. “They were demons that crossed dimensions,” he continued, “seeking dominion in each. They sleep in death between worlds, awaiting their resurrection, neither here nor there.”

“And The First wants to give them their wake up call,” Buffy added.

“So it would seem.”

She crossed the clearing and joined him by the entrance to the Well, reaching out and touching it herself. It hummed with life under her hand, but she could feel it weakening, dying a slow death beneath her fingers. The First.

“The First corrupts the Well,” Drogyn answered her unspoken question, his voice sad and mournful. “Poisons it with its presence here and drains the Old Oak of its life. The Oak is powerful, strong, and so it lingers, but it will soon succumb.”

She looked up at him, realising the deep affection he had for the place. “You guarded this?”

Drogyn nodded, seemingly too preoccupied to notice her questions anymore. “The duty was passed to me only a few decades past. I have been many things, seen many places, but I like it here. I have a cave in which to dwell that is warm and dry. It is my home now.”

Buffy let that slide, not sure whether Drogyn was pulling her leg or if a cave dwelling was what every Aragon wannabe aspired to.

Perhaps they should just get this over with. There was an entity that was way overdue its expiration date. She readied her axe. “Okay. Lead the way.”

***

Just because the Old Oak really was bigger on the inside didn’t mean that Buffy had abandoned all her doubts about what Drogyn had told her. Okay, the hole in the trunk had been less of a squeeze than expected and had opened into a dark, subterranean tunnel which she felt rather than saw was wide enough for the two of the to walk side by side, but a certain Wellness was still somewhat lacking.

By now, her torch had finally given up working and she slipped it into her pocket as Drogyn took a less twenty-first century torch from the wall and lit it with an incongruously modern Zippo. The torch roared into life with a whiff of burning oil that stung the back of her throat.

Buffy let Drogyn take point again. He strode on ahead, sword drawn and ready in one hand and the torch blazing in the other. The light licked softly at the walls of the tunnel, highlighting rough-hewn walls penetrated here and there by tree roots and large stones that bulged from the soft loam that held them in place. The tunnel seemed endless in the dark, its slight incline slowly taking them down into the earth, deeper and deeper by increments almost too small to perceive.

Soon the dark soil in the walls turned to a harder, sandy clay material, which crumbled under Buffy’s hand and covered her fingers in a soft, powdery dust. “Why can’t evil things make their lairs in clean places?” she mused, as she wiped her hands clean on her coat. “Like the mall! The mall would be great. Slayage and sales, what could be better than that?”

Drogyn stopped.

“That was a rhetorical question by the way,” she added before he could snap back at her.

He said nothing, but turned again and quickened his pace as if he couldn’t wait to be rid of his awkward charge.

Like the woods, the tunnel was also eerily quiet. Buffy could only hear their muffled footfalls and soft sounds of their breaths. With her other sense muted, she felt the tug in her stomach flutter more acutely as they descended. They were going the right way at least.

As she had suspected they met no challenge as the path was clear to receive her. With nothing to fight, her axe was starting to feel like a dead weight and she wished she’d brought something smaller, as there was no room in the tight tunnel to swing it anyway. Despite this, she kept it ready. A bulky weapon was better than no weapon.

After about half a mile, the tunnel ended abruptly and opened out, delivering them into a narrow cavern, the depths of which fell away beneath them into a vast abyss lit from below by a mysterious, ethereal light. A short wooden bridge connected the two sides of the cave with its functional, inelegant span and Drogyn strode across it confidently, seemingly unaware of the way the bridge creaked under their weight or the disconcerting gaps between some of the worn planks. Buffy tried not to think of the drop that awaited her if the bridge disintegrated under her feet. Instead she leant over the edge of a solid rail lashed together with thick coils of aging rope and looked down.

Suddenly, the state of the bridge was irrelevant. Down there, stacked on top of each other, coffins upon coffins upon coffins were piled up in haphazard towers of countless dead, waiting, waiting, to wake.

“Wow,” she breathed, awestruck. She felt like an idiot, but there was nothing else she could say that could encompass the scale or the impact of this place. She was staring down into forever, into unfathomable depths, and she was so high up that if she threw in a stone, it would never stop falling. There were no words to describe such a place, so she wouldn’t even try.

A hole in the earth, Drogyn had called the Well. That was some understatement.

“Behold,” Drogyn announced with an unnecessary sweep of his arm. “This is the Deeper Well.”

tbc

Previous parts are here.

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Welcome home Tegan!

bogwitch@livejournal.com — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 21:01:35 GMT

I can stop boring you all with all my sadness now!

Two boys found her hiding in some holly bushes in completely the opposite direction to the one I've been looking in, although I must have passed her at some point. My dad and I fished her out of there tonight.

She's okay, a little thin, very dirty and there's a problem with her claw, but she's fine and she's here, purring away.

Hurrah! The boys will get their reward tomorrow!

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bogwitch@livejournal.com — Sat, 17 Oct 2009 15:14:21 GMT

The rhyme doesn't go up to 14 magpies, does it? Because that's how many are gathered in the park at the moment.

Still no cat.

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bogwitch@livejournal.com — Sun, 04 Oct 2009 18:17:37 GMT

Still no cat and the weather has worsened.

I'm beginning to accept I won't see her again.

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bogwitch@livejournal.com — Sun, 27 Sep 2009 10:39:27 GMT

I just want my cat back.

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bogwitch@livejournal.com — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 14:59:51 GMT

Still no sign of the cat.

There's a little food out, a cushion cover I don't mind losing and a box. I've spoken to the local busibodies, kids and the dog walkers. There's signs up in the park.

I've walked miles today searching the park and the trees; all the places I can think of.

When I get the energy I'm going to sprinkle some of her litter on the grass outside.

I'm exhausted, not eating, and still catless.

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bogwitch@livejournal.com — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 01:09:21 GMT

I think I've lost my cat. And it's my fault.

I've just spent the last hour searching. She's an indoor cat but she likes looking out of the window. Because she's wobbly on her legs and I live in a first (i.e. not ground) floor flat I have a grill that fits across the window when it's open. Tonight I forgot to fit the grill. I was woken my the sound of a fox barking and there she is sitting on the grass below my window. I get my clothes on and rush down there and she's gone. I can't find her anywhere and there's at least two foxes out there.

She's shy and never been outside. I'm worried sick.

I need sleep so much, but she's out there and lost and might be injured.

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Fic: Divine Interruption (BtVS/SPN Crossover)

bogwitch@livejournal.com — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 19:01:54 GMT

It was hils's 30th birthday yesterday so I got my finger out and finished the fic based on her prompt.

Title: Divine Interruption
Author: Bogwitch
Word Count: 1608
Pairings:/Characters: Spike, Castiel. Gen.
Summary: Supernatural/Buffy the Vampire Slayer Crossover. Post Sympathy for the Devil/Post Chosen (Post Never Fade Away). Spike’s unlife gets a divine interruption from the angel of a rather atheist apocalypse.
Author’s Note: Written for hils, who gave me a prompt: ‘Spike meets Castiel’. Not a lot of Supernatural knowledge is required, only that the end is nigh.
Thanks to myfeetshowit for her beta work again.
Warnings: A bit of mild swearing as is Spike's wont. He's not going to curb his tongue even for an angel.

Life was unfair, so they said.

And so was undeath apparently; at least Spike’s was turning out to be. Whether he chose to be good or evil, it didn’t seem to make much of a difference; he certainly didn’t get to rest in peace. If it wasn’t a master vampire with a nefarious plan or a slayer with a scheme to thwart the said master vampire with the nefarious plan, they’d all stopped at Spike’s door at sometime or other demanding his help. Although even Spike would admit that a visit from a proper, bone-fide angel, and not just a grumpy vampire named after one, was a first for his long and varied career.

Problem was, Castiel, for the angel was he, wanted him to get off his arse to help save the world again – just because another pair of stupid berks had kicked the whole thing off once more. Someone – someone who wasn’t Spike – really needed to make existence a little less prone to ending at the drop of a hat. Any old evil mastermind could find a couple of poor gits to manipulate into starting Armageddon or say, assemble the dismembered parts of a humanity hating demon killing machine just to please his paramour, but although Spike was always up for a good fight, stopping the destruction of everything once a week was starting to get a bit repetitive. Besides, he didn’t do encores, being barbequed once for love and honour and to save the world for his girl was quite enough for him.

“Doesn’t sound like my problem,” Spike groused as he put his feet up on the ottoman and got comfy in his armchair; his favourite soap was on in a minute and he wasn’t going anywhere whatever the divine interruption. He’d done his bit and he was reaping his just rewards in a decent spot of telly. “The blokes that started it can fix it.”

“It is what God has commanded,” Castiel pressed, drawing himself up to his full height, which without the wings wouldn’t be terribly impressive, what with the flappy coat and the wayward tie he was sporting, but the wings, well, they did give the ensemble a bit of divine credibility, especially when their shadows slid menacingly up the wall.

But Spike had been around for awhile and he’d seen enough of the world to be a little bit jaded about such displays, he’d even been a bit scary himself once upon a time, back before the soul had turned him into a soppy, fangless puppy. Impressive as the display was, it wasn’t going to get Spike jumping out of his comfy chair any time soonish. “Then god can command someone else. I’m a bit busy.”

“I do not have the time to persuade you. You must remember you are not my only charge.” Castiel was serious. He didn’t look like he knew how to be anything else. “This war will be fought on many fronts. I have other battles.”

That was the trouble with this hero business was there was always someone in need of saving. If it wasn’t a hellmouth belching out its evil every Tuesday, it was yet another apocalypse threatening the world. Spike had been there, done that and got the bloody and ripped T-Shirt.

“Right. So you keep saying,” Spike glanced at his clock and switched on his TV. “What do you want me to do about it? I’m retired. There’s an army of slayers now to do that sort of thing.”

“They also have their role to play, ridding the earth of demonkind. However, God has chosen you to take on this task.”

That caused Spike’s eyebrow to twitch, but he tried not to show it. “Has he now?” God must think he was some kind of poodle. Roll over. Play dead. Stop the soddin’ apocalypse. Again. Maybe he was jaded, maybe he’d seen one too many apocalypses, but the thought of yet another just didn’t get him moving anymore.

“You lack faith.” Castiel pointed out as if it wasn’t obvious. He added with a heavy sigh, “The earth is full of non-believers.”

He didn’t believe this. “I’m a sodding vampire. Bit past that whole Sunday School thing.”

“I am aware of what you are.”

Spike picked up the TV remote and flicked it over to the right channel. “Then you’ll be aware I’m a right bastard. Now piss off, I’m watching the telly.”

The picture on the screen turned to a static whiteout. In hope, despite knowing it was futile, Spike jabbed the buttons on the remote again. The angel had buggered up every channel, including the God Channel, funnily enough. Each and every one was turned in to blizzard TV.

Spike humphed and tossed the useless remote aside.

“You are not just any vampire. You are a vampire with a soul.” Castiel proclaimed.

“Really? Then you’re in luck. There’s another one of those. I’m sure the big ponce will be glad to help you out, he likes stuff like that. He’s even called Angel. You’d like him.”

“Please listen. Your destined task will not be to bring the apocalypse to its conclusion. That task belongs to others. Your job is to wait–”

“Is that all? You should have said, ‘cause that I can do,” Spike brightened, although he was split between annoyance at being passed over and pitying the poor buggers who’d drawn the short straw. “Perhaps I like this plan after all.”

Castiel let out another sigh, but this one was long and weary as if he was tired of argument. “I meant that you are to wait until Lucifer has selected his vessel. If Lucifer walks this earth, people will need leaders. Experienced leaders like you.”

Spike snorted. As if humans were likely to follow him anywhere. At least with minions he could rip the heads off a couple of useless ones to keep the rest in line. Humans tended to argue back and he couldn’t exactly cow them into submission with random violence anymore. People preferred committees and the other crap Angel was good at. There were others way more suited that sort of thing; people who might even buy what the angel was selling. “You’re the one with the ear of the almighty, you do it,” he suggested.

Castiel twitched at that and for a moment Spike could see the angel’s conviction crumble; a shadow in his eyes that revealed a truth that made a lot more sense than God picking a bloody vampire to rally the troops of the righteous.

Spike raised a questioning eyebrow, hoping that Castiel would reveal a bit more of this most interesting revelation.

“I cannot,” Castiel caved. His shoulders slumped and that pesky doubt lingering behind the angel’s soulful eyes became full on disappointment. Even the mighty shadowy wings seemed to droop around him, bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders and its fate. “God is… elsewhere,” he said without conviction before adding sadly, “I am… looking.”

“So all this ‘destiny’ rot is a load of old bollocks?”

Castiel looked sheepish and lowered his eyes. “Perhaps. Although I have found now that most will not listen.”

“Yeah, humans have a habit of that.” Spike felt an unwelcome twinge of sympathy. Somewhere deep inside him was a not-so-secret squidgy place he’d rather not admit to that had a soft spot for kittens, a certain slayer’s teenage sisters and now, apparently, angels charged with getting atheists to stop his damn apocalypse. Damn it, at heart he’d known he’d end up agreeing to whatever Castiel wanted the minute the angel had appeared in his apartment, he’d just wanted the white hats to work a bit for his service for a change, but now God help him, or not as the case appeared to be, he was feeling guilty about the sad faces of droopy angels. He might as well just hand in his balls with his fangs.

It was at times like this that Spike missed being evil. He didn’t regret his choice to turn to the light side for a moment, but the days when he could just flip a couple of fingers at a daft plan and not give a toss were long gone. Somehow greeting an angel’s heartfelt call to arms with some rude gesticulation now felt annoyingly wrong, even though he knew perfectly well that he would regret having anything to do with Castiel’s bright ideas of world saving; especially if it meant him doing all the work while the angel that saw through his ‘sod off’ spent the time plucking at his harp somewhere high above, but bugger it if he wasn’t going to give in and make the angel an offer.

“Why don’t we leave the leadering of the masses to the big ponce and I’ll help you look for your God fellow?” It seemed like a pretty good deal. If God even existed; he could be anywhere – on the beach in the Caribbean if he had any sense – and Spike could do as he liked under the pretence of ‘looking’, knowing that he was doing the heavenly host a favour to the bargain.

“That task could be most dangerous.” But Castiel looked up hopefully at the suggestion.

Spike bounced to his feet, forgetting the telly at the suggestion of doing some proper damage in God’s name. “I don’t mind a good rumble. Let’s get out there.”

“Then your aid in the search would be most welcome.”

Thinking that the bar down the road would be a fine place to look first, Spike rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Right then. So where do we start?”

end

That leaves one more prompt left to complete - the one I'm struggling with, of course.

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Crap Day, Part the Second

bogwitch@livejournal.com — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 20:28:16 GMT

The afternoon was nowhere near as bad as the morning, thank god.

So the damage:

1. The person that carved me up on the roundabout turning out to be my dad.
2. A whacking great customs charge on my imported SPN DVDs. The hold up in customs also wiping out the point of paying extra for the expedited shipping.
3. After owning up to needing to pay this charge to the Post Room (who'd paid it for me), learning I could have got away with it.
4. Numerous mistakes at work. General dippiness.
5. Minor accident while reversing in the car park resulting in damage to someone else's car that could prove expensive.
6. Cat pissing on the bathroom rug then trampling it all over the flat/sofa/me.
7. Computers that keep crashing.

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bogwitch@livejournal.com — Thu, 10 Sep 2009 11:36:22 GMT

I'm having a really rubbish day.

And there's still most of it left to go! :(

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I'm about due for another ow!

bogwitch@livejournal.com — Sun, 30 Aug 2009 21:11:49 GMT

I have hurt my back in a freak Cluedo accident. The lead piping was not involved.

Plus I dropped a shelf on my foot.

All in another Sunday.

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bogwitch@livejournal.com — Wed, 26 Aug 2009 20:23:01 GMT

I haven't been able to think of anything to post so:

Oh and writerconuk was great too!

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Fic: Working My Way Back to You - Chapter Thirty - Like Hell

bogwitch@livejournal.com — Tue, 04 Aug 2009 18:31:49 GMT

Taking a short break from the prompt fic (Remember I'm still up for prompting here. Supernatural, Dark Angel or BtVS! But no more crossovers please) and the on-going soreness about my poor old Supernatural prompt fic that hardly anyone read last week (I thought it was better than that), to put out a new chapter of the WIP to meet the silence, only if I leave this any longer I won't get to Chapter 31.

Working My Way Back To You

No characters were harmed in the making of this fic. They do not belong to me, but are the property of Fox Entertainment and Mutant Enemy.

Summary: Spike/Buffy. Post-Chosen, Post Hellbound. What did you think the First Evil was doing after the closure of the Hellmouth? Knitting evil jumpers?

Thanks to myfeetshowit for her beta work again.

Keep up in PDF! WORKING MY WAY BACK TO YOU IN PDF Just like a book might be, only better!

A brief recap of events...

Spike was resurrected by Angel, Wesley and Fred in Wolfham and Hart using a mysterious disc that remade him from the matter of the universe. The only problem was The First was stuck in his body with him. Captured by Bringers, Spike and The First were separated and both head to England to get to Buffy. Now they need to get rid of The First before it comes through on its promise to sacrifice Buffy to open the Deeper Well. Spike has volunteered to be returned to the amulet, taking The First with him, but Buffy isn't very pleased about that. They argue, ergo sex ensues. Meanwhile, Willow has been working out the mechanics of the spell she needss to do. It is agreed they will do it at a stone circle called The Dancers. Buffy is still not happy...

Buffy seemed to be thinking and was not liking the conclusions she was coming to. "What if next time the amulet releases you, it's the future and everything has changed?” she asked Spike quietly.
Spike stared at the floor. "I'm not coming out again, pet. We'll see to it."
Buffy didn’t look reassured, but she gathered herself and addressed the group. “Okay. So how do we do this?”

Even from where she was kneeling by the pentagram, Willow didn’t fail to notice the defiant glint in her friend’s eye as Buffy made her declaration. Buffy didn’t fool her for a second. She had seen that look too many times before, when Buffy had made up her mind and was through with trying to argue her case against her friends. It was Angel back from Hell. It was Dawn’s life against the possibility of Glory ending the world. It was Spike all over again. And no matter what anyone else decided, Buffy had already skipped the tricky discussion part and had said to hell with anyone else’s opinion. The Slayer already knew what she fought for and it wasn’t what they were debating.

Willow hoped Buffy knew what she was doing. She trusted Buffy's instincts, and had done with her life, over and over, but she knew as well as anyone how much love could cloud a girl’s judgement and make her do crazy, crazy things. Buffy didn’t look as if she was about to do something irrational though, even if, as Willow suspected, it was unlikely she had any sort of plan in mind; but Buffy’s belief that there was another way might just be enough on its own.

Because more often than not by doing her own thing, Buffy stumbled over the right answer anyway. If anyone could find a way out of this without sacrificing Spike, Willow knew it was Buffy, she was a hero and she could find the solutions the rest of them couldn’t see – if she didn’t get herself killed in the process.

Distracted by Buffy’s question, and seemingly unaware that Buffy was going to ignore everything he said whatever he suggested, Giles glanced out of the tall, elegant windows at the sky, iron dark and blackening with evening above them. “The Dancers aren’t far from here,” he announced, turning back to the room. “The sun is close to setting now; we’ll set out in an hour.” He looked at Wesley, who nodded his agreement. “Wesley and I will help Willow start the ritual for the spell and Spike will wear the amulet.” Giles held out his hand and Willow dropped the amulet into his palm. “The spell should then pull The First and Spike back into the stone.” He rubbed his forehead, betraying a little of his concern. “For good this time.”

“And there’s really no other way?” Buffy asked, confirming that against whatever decision she’d made.

Still oblivious to Buffy’s subterfuge, Giles looked at Wesley for an answer.

“We could destroy The First’s altar,” Wesley offered with a shrug. “That would delay its plans beyond the equinox.”

Giles nodded. “But unfortunately we would only be winning the battle. Today we could actually win the war. The First will undoubtedly try again and many more lives will be lost. And still we would be left with the same answer. It would better for all of us if this were dealt with tonight, Buffy. We all have other duties to attend to elsewhere and I, for one, do not wish to remain here indefinitely. Besides we can’t risk you entering the Well. It is exactly where The First would want you to be.”

Buffy looked rebellious, her disobedience ever closer to the surface. She ignored Giles and focused her attention on Wesley instead. “Could I wear the amulet?”

“Buffy, no!” Both Spike and Angel said together before he could answer. They stared at each other as if they’d both just remembered that the other existed. Neither bothered to conceal their loathing of the other. Willow took the opportunity to scramble to her feet and move somewhere safer.

Spike started towards the other vampire, promising trouble if Angel wanted some, but Buffy grabbed his arm angrily. “No! Leave him!”

Angel, for his part, shrugged off the challenge as if Spike was no kind of threat and pushed him out of the way. “Buffy,” he pleaded, “don’t even think of doing this.”

That made Buffy even angrier, her eyes flashing she drew her brows together. “Why not? Maybe I want to. Maybe I want to decide for myself.”

“Don’t throw your life away over this, over him.” Angel waved at Spike dismissively. “He’s not worth it!”

“Hey!” Spike protested as he tried ineffectually to free his coat from the pinch of Buffy’s fingers.

Buffy didn’t let him go, but otherwise Spike might as well have not been in the room. “And who are you to judge?” she spat back at Angel. “Like you’ve been Mr Perfect.”

“Yeah,” Spike’s scowl was quickly replaced with a smirk as he sensed an opportunity to further infuriate the other vampire. “And you know, I’ve had the most bloody brilliant day of my existence and my soul hasn’t stepped in to ruin it.”

“You smug bastard.” Angel went for him, but Buffy was faster. She yanked Spike out of the way and placed herself between the two rivals. Her firm hand on Angel’s chest shoved him backwards none too gently.

“Hey! I am not going to let this pissing contest interfere with what we need to do,“ she snapped. “I’ve made my choice, Angel. Deal with it.” She glared at both vampires and they both backed down. Angel settled moodily back into his chair. Spike moved away and took a sulky position against a wall. Once they were quiet, she turned back to Wesley. “Well? Can I?”

“I doubt it would make a difference,” Wesley said softly. “The First is inside Spike, a part of it is woven into his very being. I doubt they could ever be separated now.”

Giles cleared his throat and placed a loving hand gently on her shoulder, offering the only comfort he could. “I suggest we reconvene in an hour. Buffy, I am truly sorry.”

That was that. The decision had been made. No one dared look at Buffy.

For her part, Buffy said nothing. Willow saw her hang her head and swallow before lifting her chin and looking at Spike for a long moment, eyes teary and longing. Then, without further comment, she turned and left the room.

“Buffy!” Spike launched himself off the wall, ready to follow.

Willow held out her hand and quickly reached out with her magic, slamming the door shut just as he reached it. He pulled on the doorknob with all his strength, but the door did not give.

Defeated, he rounded on Willow, jaw set. “Let me out,” he snarled, angry and prepared to vamp out if necessary.

“Spike,” Willow steadied him with a calming hand on his, “maybe this is a best friend moment.”

Spike didn’t seem pleased, but he cooled down. He stepped aside, giving Willow a look that told her that he was well aware of what Buffy was up to as well. “Go on,” he shrugged ruefully. “The slayer won’t listen to me. Never has.”

Willow thanked him with a small smile, casually flicking her wrist towards the door. It popped open and swung wide at her command.

“Neat trick.” Spike looked at the door and snorted. There was some humour in it at least, but the look he gave her as she left was deadly serious. “Make sure she doesn’t do anything daft, Red.”

Willow didn’t know if she could promise that, but she’d try.

Buffy was nowhere to be seen by the time Willow let the library door click shut behind her, but it wasn’t difficult to work out where she’d gone. She found Buffy at the bottom of the Grand Staircase, getting ready to leave. She glanced at Willow as she pulled on her coat. She didn’t seem in any way surprised she’d been followed.

“You won’t stop me,” she said, sliding her arm into the other sleeve and pulling out her ponytail. “And I can’t tell Spike I’m going. He’d stop me with that weird First power thing.”

Willow doubted that. She didn’t think after all that had happened he would force his will on Buffy again. “He wouldn’t do that unless he had to. But Buffy—”

“Will, I can’t let this happen,” Buffy interrupted as she started to gather up her weapons. She picked up her trusty axe and tested its weight. “I can’t. He fought so damn hard for… for, us. For there to even be an ‘us’, and I don’t feel as if I fought at all. It’s my turn to try.”

“I know what you’re going through” Willow sympathised, handing Buffy a torch. “You have to do this. I understand that, I would do it too, but what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.” Buffy took the torch. She smiled as she looked at it as if it was something she had forgotten, then slipped it into her pocket. “All I know is that the Well is the last place The First will expect me to be so that’s where I’ll go. I guess I’ll figure something out.”

Willow nodded and bit her lip, really, really hoping that Buffy knew what she was doing. “I won’t stop you. But I can give you this.” She rummaged through her pocket and offered Buffy the small piece of aquamarine crystal. “It will keep your head clear. It’s a longshot, but…”

Buffy nodded and took it. Then she threw her arms around Willow’s neck. “Thanks Will. You’re the best,” she whispered into Willow’s ear. “Do the ritual. If I fail, then we’ll need to finish that spell. I just need to buy a chance. For Spike. Tell him…tell him I’ll see him later.”

And with that Buffy disappeared through the door into the night.

***

If Spike knew one thing about Buffy, it was that whatever his plans were, however noble or justified he thought they were, or even just plain wicked as they might have been a long time ago, she would find some way to scupper them. It was a habit, he conceded, which in hindsight, had saved him from making some right royal mistakes and he had many reasons to be thankful for many of her interventions, but her tendency to leave a perfectly decent plan in ruins was no less annoying every time she did it.

So, when Willow finally returned alone from wherever it was she’d followed Buffy to, he was in no way surprised. He didn’t need to be told what Buffy was about to do; he took one look at Willow’s expression of evasive worry as she slipped back into the library and he knew.

He pushed off the wall, determined to go after the silly chit and put this all back the way it was meant to be. “Where is she?” he demanded, not sparing Willow any of his annoyance.

“She’s gone.” Willow looked up at him, all innocence and worry and powerlessness; a convincing performance if he hadn’t known she was a bloody powerful witch capable of destroying the world or stopping a bloody-minded slayer from doing something stupid if she felt like it. Spike didn’t have the time for this crap, Buffy could only have gone if Willow had let her go and he’d be buggered if he’d just let Buffy do that.

But it was Giles who asked the obvious question before he could. “Gone? Gone where?”

Willow looked back at the door, as if she could see through it to where Buffy was heading. The nervous glance was as telling as her words. “She’s gone to the Well.”

Damn her, Spike thought, his fears confirmed. He’d been trying to do the right thing for a change, taking one for team, saving the bloody world and she wouldn’t even let him do that right. “Brilliant. Soddin’ bloody fucking brilliant.”

Angel rose from his chair, joining Spike to crowd around the young witch. “So what do we do now?” he asked with an edge to his voice that indicated he was every bit as annoyed as Spike was, but containing it by forcing down by his worry.

“We go after her! Bring her back,” Spike waved an arm pointedly at the door. “Make the bint see some sodding sense.”

“No,” Willow said firmly as Angel looked like he was about to agree with Spike.

Spike gave her his best menacing stare, but she didn’t flinch. How times had changed. “What do you mean ‘no’?”

Willow gave him her patented resolve face; she was not going to be messed with. “I mean we leave her. She doesn’t want you to have do this.”

Spike snorted. As usual, this was all about what Buffy wanted. “So she thinks giving The First what it wants is a top idea, then?”

“She’ll find another way, she always does.”

“That’s very optimistic of you, Willow,” said Giles, critically. “Has she any idea of how to do that?”

Willow bit her lip, chagrined at least.

“I thought not.” Giles straightened. “But I’m afraid we really don’t have the time for a rescue mission. I suggest we carry on as planned. The best way we can help Buffy now is to do the spell.”

Spike was appalled. “You can’t just let her walk in there!”

“I think Buffy is misguided,” Giles conceded, “but she may have a point. I doubt The First will be expecting her to just show up at the Well and she may at least be able to take its attention from our purpose.”

Spike’s anger erupted. He glared at Giles, then at Willow, at Angel, at Wesley. “You’re all barmy.”

“Spike–“Angel started, not getting far as Spike shouted over him.

Spike jabbed a finger at each of them in turn. “If you think I’m going to let her do this, you can forget it.”

“The decision has been made.” Giles soothed.

“Not by me!”

“Oh, shut up.” Giles rubbed his temple. He nodded at Willow.

“I saw that!” Spike backed away, a victim of enough wayward spells to not want to get entangled with any more. “You are not doing that to me!”

“Fine with me,” Giles sighed.

Spike didn’t see the punch coming. One moment he was venting, pushing out his frustration with Buffy as anger at her friends and their funny ideas about what was right, the next, Giles’ fist was coming straight for his face. It connected with his chin with more force than he expected and he was falling…

Falling into blackness.

Out cold.

***

Buffy was so very glad Willow had remembered to give her the torch.

Night had not brought a break in the clouds, nor had the steady drizzle that pattered onto her raincoat showed any sign of stopping. With the moon blocked by the heavy blanket of nimbostratus and the village lights as dead as its residents, the night was like a fog of blackness that the torch could barely penetrate.

At first, she’d tried to preserve her night sight, keeping the torch off and navigating the footpaths by whatever light could break through the murk, but soon the soft, welcoming glow from the Retreat windows was far behind and the night closed in around her.

No one had specifically mentioned where the Deeper Well was, beyond the vague descriptions of ‘in the woods’ or ‘at the top of the hill’ but Buffy had known before she’d slipped out that she would find it easily enough. The First wanted her there; it would guide her.

Sure enough, something drew her back to the scrappy strip of woodland that clung to the rolling hills behind the village, an uncanny tug in her gut compelling her to follow the track that skirted the edge of the field next to the tree line. The track wasn’t a made up path like the footpath, more an access route for farm vehicles through the stubbly crop to the gazing land higher up, but although it was rough and uneven, it was wide and unploughed, if somewhat overgrown. During her explorations she’d never thought of going this way; it led away from the houses in the forsaken hamlet into the countryside and she’d dismissed the rolling tree-lined hills as too wild even for a vampire army to rest up. There was little out there that vampires would want; she knew from experience they were urban creatures that liked their comforts and an easy food source. Camping out in the rough was not top of a vampire’s to do list.

She picked her way up the soggy, rising ground, using her torch to find a safe route through the long wiry grass in the hope that she didn’t turn her ankle again. Following the line of the hedgerow and the shallow ditch that screened the woods from the field, she trudged on, seeking a gate or a stile, even a break in the hedge. Eventually, after finding nothing but banks upon banks of nettles, the beam of her torch found the remains of an old wooden pallet that had been wedged into a gap where the hawthorn had thinned.

Even without the call to the Well tying up her insides, it was clear this was the way she was meant to go. A closer look found that the barrier had been broken through; the rotting wood torn down; smashed and trampled into the ditch by many feet. The remains were easy to clamber over, forming a rickety bridge over the mud into the trees beyond.

The woods themselves were quiet, too still and silent to be quite right. The hush once again watchful; no birds sang, nothing living rustled the undergrowth, not even the wind or the rain rustled the thickets of trees, but still Buffy felt as if many eyes were on her, guiding her progress, a silent escort making sure she got to where they needed her to be. Let them, she thought. This wasn’t a secret assault after all; she wanted The First to know she was coming.

She had just stuck out along the path when a voice hollered out of the dark, “Who goes there!”

tbc

Previous parts are here.

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Sweet purry fluff cat by day, a devilish horror by night...

bogwitch@livejournal.com — Sun, 02 Aug 2009 20:48:38 GMT

bogwitch@livejournal.com — Sat, 01 Aug 2009 20:15:47 GMT

I am so bored I can even dream up something for this post to be about.

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Fic: And Lucifer Brought the Light (Supernatural)

bogwitch@livejournal.com — Mon, 27 Jul 2009 21:11:06 GMT

Erm. This is another prompt fic, but one that went slightly wrong.

gehayi prompted me with: Buffy/Supernatural crossover. Someone from the Buffyverse has to prevent or DOES prevent Lucifer being freed. I wrote a draft, but I didn't like it and started again, only this time the Buffy element didn't fit (it's a bit of a squeeze as it is). This pure Supernatural fic was the result. I am therefore going to give the original draft another go sometime, with the Buffyverse character.

Meanwhile:

Title: And Lucifer Brought the Light
Author: Bogwitch
Wordcount: 1062
Characters: Dean, Sam, Lucifer.
Summary: A post-4.22 coda. The war was about to begin
Author's Note: Spoilers for Lucifer Rising, carries on as that one ends.

It was too late. He was coming.

Light as pain. Light as beauty. Light as darkness opposed. Light so intense it was impossible to see anymore as it burst from column to supernova, gaining intensity as it grew from the spark of the firefly to the blazing heart of a newborn star. Yet this was not a light that offered warmth or comfort, it was cold with the piercing chill of the void. An absolute, this was light in extremity, caught in its purest form, divine and otherworldly; obeying other rules beyond physics or reality, and too refined and too perfect for mortal man to endure.

Still Sam refused to go, to leave before that which was banished walked free again, unable to move or just needing to see what he had wrought. So Dean closed his eyes and covered them as best he could, hoping like hell that through Sam’s shocked numbness, he still had the sense to do the same. Overwhelmed and sightless, there was little assistance that Dean could offer if Sam could no longer think for himself. Instead, Dean did all that he could do, clinging to his brother in case the light would somehow swallow Sam whole; like Ruby’s lies; like Lilith’s plans; like Azazel’s toxic blood. He held on, admitting that he needed the contact just as much; a touch of reassurance that ensured that his brother was still there, still human – sort of.

Still Sam.

They were lost. But if Sam went, Dean would too. The light drowned the room, flooding it until they were nowhere; the stone chapel left behind them some where or some when in the weft of place and time. Sam trembled, sobbing maybe, duped, all that he had brought upon the world just too much to bear. Crumpling, Sam could hold on no more and Dean felt him fall, but although Sam’s body jerked away as it collapsed, Dean tightly wound the fabric of Sam’s jacket into his fingers, re-bunching them in his fist. He would not let Sam go. Would not let Sam break as he had. Not again. Not ever again.

Then it was over. The light was gone… just gone. Replaced with the thready streams of dusty moonlight that meant reality had returned. Hard, gritty stone was back under his hands and knees, scuffing Dean’s knuckles and the denim of his jeans. Back on firmer ground, he tried to open his eyes again, but he saw nothing, not even his own hand in front of him; a galaxy worth of light still seared into his retinas. The hard muscle of Sam’s chest was still there though, a firm and comfortingly solid anchor, a constant. For a moment Dean indulged in the solace of relief. They had stayed together. For now at least.

Vision cleared and Dean looked up. He couldn’t help it, although he feared to see what had been released, he faced it anyway. Lucifer had risen. An angel truly fallen this time, one that hated man, not loved them too much. Even as he dreaded the truth and half expected to see his own darkness reflected back from the eyes of the Lightbringer, Dean wanted to see the face of this devil that he had been chosen to conquer.

To spit in his eye if he dared.

At the centre of the circle Lucifer stood stiff and straight, the blood pooling by his feet streaming and fizzing as it evaporated away. He was tall, delicate and as beautiful as he was terrifying. A statue craved from flesh and bone; emotionless, blank, bittersweet. He stared at the corpses impassively; at Lilith’s stolen meat bled out; at Ruby’s staring sightlessly into death’s abyss; then Sam for a long moment, appraising him with eyes that saw too much, taking all but offering nothing with return.

More than anything right then Dean wanted to pull Sam away, to get in the car and to drive them as far from the cursed chapel as he could. Let the comfort of the road choose the direction of their escape, as if they could ever hope to drive far enough. Lucifer’s attention on his brother was sickening, too personal, too… satisfied, thankful, but Dean was frozen in place, awed and humbled together, revolted, his body unable to follow his mind’s decree to move, to run, to get away.

The fallen angel reached out then and solemnly cupped Sam’s face in gentle hands. A soft thumb brushed Sam’s tears away and shushed him calm. Sam was his now; his liberator, his rescuer, his saviour, and when Sam looked up into his beautiful face, he was mesmerised, smitten.

“No,” Dean forced out, shaking his brother, all the time his skin crawling, his voice strained from shouting, and with some kind of relief for Sam when Lucifer turned those penetrating eyes away from Sam to fall on him.

It was a stare that Dean could feel reading his tarnished and tattered soul; and for the first time he was an open book, large print even, everything bare and gaping and exposed. He could feel this angel searching inside, scraping out every detail he wanted to know, every forsaken thing that Dean had buried deep inside was unearthed, examined and inspected. He could soon feel how he was found wanting, the loathing clear when he met those hateful eyes. Lucifer hated goodness and humanity and the whiff of righteousness that had crawled away to hide from the horrors of Hell. He hated all of it. He hated Dean. And he knew, knew it was Dean that was charged with finishing this, him. And he hated that too.

And then Lucifer smiled, in a knowing way that was not in the least afraid; not of Dean, certainly not of Sam, and Dean wanted more than anything to punch away the approval he saw there and the way Lucifer saw no threat in him at all, but his hand stayed clenched in Sam’s jacket. He wouldn’t let go, not now, they were together or nothing and Lucifer should know it.

The smile faded. Sam fell back gasping as those slender, elegant hands released him. Lucifer nodded. He had no need of speech, of something as simple as words, his eyes said all he needed to say: until next time.

Lucifer walked away. The war was about to begin.

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Ficlet: Coffee Nirvana (Dark Angel/BtVS)

bogwitch@livejournal.com — Fri, 24 Jul 2009 18:47:13 GMT

Thumb is feeling better after two hours of icing it.

More prompt fic!

I'm not into crossovers really, I have to say, but this one I quite enjoyed writing, mainly because it was easy.

Title: Coffee Nirvana
Author: Bogwitch
Wordcount: 377
Characters: Max Guevara and Buffy Summers
Summary: Dark Angel/Buffy the Vampire Slayer crossover. Prompt from diachrony: Max & Buffy and the perfect cup of coffee

It’s like a little piece of heaven in a cup.

Max doesn’t know where the older woman got the coffee, it’s like proper pre-Pulse coffee shop stuff and it’s divine; must be expensive too, but never mind that, she could drink this cup forever and never be unhappy. “Mmm. Where did you get this?”

“I still know some people.” Buffy shrugs; closed, noncommittal, certainly not prepared to give her secrets away to just anybody, least of all some transgenic off the street who is already asking for a bit too much. Weapons are one thing, quality coffee is quite another.

So Max doesn’t press. Sources of such necessities are closely guarded these days and no one gives up their network without a fight. She already knows that Buffy, despite her age, is a slayer, the oldest ever, and is more than capable of holding her own against a transgenic half her age, so there’s no point in trying to literally twist her arm. Besides, Buffy’s contacts are the very definition of shady, they’re dark, supernatural and occult, and Max is not going to get involved with that otherworldly shit, even for the best coffee she has ever tasted.

She sucks up her disappointment and takes another sip of the fantastic cup. The deliciously bitter tang of the smooth Colombian roast bursts on her tongue and she’s just gone. There’s no going back to the toxic stuff now. People survive on that sludge, but now she’s tasted coffee nirvana she might have to find something else to drink.

Buffy kindly offers Max a refill. Max eagerly holds out her cup for more and watches impatiently as the liquid fills the cup to the brim. At least the old slayer is generous with the joe, even if she won’t spill the beans about where it’s from.

She drains the second cup all too quickly and it’s time to discuss business, but as she starts to ask about the special equipment she’s looking for, half her mind is already planning how she can dupe Alec into giving the arm twisting a try.

If he comes through with coffee as good as this though, she’d be forever in his debt. And if he’s really lucky, she'll even let him have some.

I'm still up for prompting here. Supernatural, Dark Angel or BtVS! But no more crossovers please.

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Ficlet: Moon Memories (Or the Lack Thereof)

bogwitch@livejournal.com — Thu, 23 Jul 2009 19:45:04 GMT

I've burnt my thumb, thus typing is a little painful at the moment.

Title: Moon Memories (Or the Lack Thereof)
Author: Bogwitch
Pairing: Spike/Buffy
Summary: Where were you when they landed on the moon?
A/N: Prompt from cheesygirl: Spike and the Apollo 11 moon landing

“Where were you when they landed on the moon?”

Spike buries his head in his pillow; wanting to dodge an awkward question he knows will end up dredging up the soulless past he’s not proud of. He’d seen Buffy’s question forming before she’d asked it and any answer he’s likely to give just might ruin his chances of a shag any time soon. “Dunno, luv,” he mutters into the downy softness.

But Buffy, never one for taking ‘no’, ‘maybe’ or ‘look at that, it’s the Goodyear blimp!’ for an answer, turns off the TV and presses him. “It was a momentous moment for mankind! When important things happen you’re supposed to remember where you were.”

“I’m not a man,” he mumbles, then draws his brows into a frown. “Are you channelling Anya?”

That got the patented Buffy Summers eyeroll^tm and he’s suddenly reminded of how young she is, asking him about memories older than she is. “No,” she says. “But you don’t get off on a technicality. You were human once.”

“Yeah, a hundred years ago.” He doesn’t know how to explain to her that none of this crap matters, that the past is the past and it’s irrelevant where he was on a certain time and date. He wishes she wouldn’t ask these sorts of questions, most of the time she hates the answers anyway and he has to sleep on the lumpy couch for a week.

He thinks about lying, but he’s never been very good at it and anyway, Buffy would know all that she didn’t want to hear in the words he didn’t say. So he tries for the surer tactic of evasion instead, but she bats his hand away from her tit before he can even get a good grope in.

“It still counts,” she insists. “So spill.”

Spike doesn’t remember though. He knows where he was when JFK was shot – best not think too much about that one, munching on a bus full of schoolkids is probably not the kind of answer she’s looking for – and he was moping in his Sunnydale crypt when the two towers toppled, but where he’d been at the time men had first walked on the lunar surface, well, he’s just a bit hazy about that one.

The thing is, the Eagle landed in 1969. He pretty much remembers nothing of that year, except for some stuff with a rainbow and some pink fluffy elephants he doesn’t think really happened at all, and July ’69 had probably been part of the long trek across coast to coast from California to Woodstock; free love, free drugs and Dru at his side, hitching lifts from state to state before snacking on the drivers. They’d eaten well on that journey. When they weren’t dining out on truckers they were tucking into hippie. The blood of the flower children came with a lot of interesting chemical additives and he’d eaten a lot of them. They were tasty.

But he doesn’t remember the moon landing. So he decides to be honest. “I wasn’t watching, luv.”

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Progress Report

bogwitch@livejournal.com — Wed, 22 Jul 2009 21:55:10 GMT

Okay. As it stands I have had 6 workable prompts. Progress is thus:

quinara: Love Hearts ~~Double~~ Triple Dip things. Or lollipops.
Status: Complete. Sweetheart Surrender

xc_runner50: spuffy - Spike giving his daughter away at her wedding.
Status: Was at draft stage, now has expanded a bit. Now needs a more comprehensive ending. Is making me tear my hair out actually.

cheesygirl: Spike and the Apollo 11 moon landing.
Status: Complete. Moon Memories (Or the Lack Thereof)

gehayi: Buffy/Supernatural crossover. Someone from the Buffyverse has to prevent or DOES prevent Lucifer being freed.
Status: Completed, but doesn't fit the prompt really. And Lucifer Brought the Light

hils: Spike meets Castiel
Status: Completed. Divine Interruption

diachrony: Max & Buffy and the perfect cup of coffee
Status: Complete. Coffee Nirvana

Anyone can still add a prompt if they like here. It's been quite fun. Remember Supernatural, Dark Angel or Buffy! But no more crossovers please.

Dabble: Sweetheart Surrender (Willow/Tara)

bogwitch@livejournal.com — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 22:25:00 GMT

Sweetheart Surrender by Bogwitch
(BtVS, Season Four, Willow/Tara, Certificate U, For Quinara. Prompt: Love Hearts (Sweethearts)

They appear when she's not looking, when she’s out of the room or when she turns away, always silently placed where she can find them by some unknown hand.

There's one in the bottom of her bag when she’s looking for a pen. There's one on the edge of her lunch tray when she returns with another drink. One even materialises on her nightstand as she sleeps.

They make Willow’s stomach flutter, this trail of cute candies, little sweethearts that tell her that Tara’s thinking of her; but it’s not the sugar that makes her tummy tingle, it’s the love.

bogwitch@livejournal.com — Tue, 21 Jul 2009 20:58:46 GMT

I'm bored. I was going to do some goodie bag stuff now I've got everything together, but I left the important stuff at work, so I can't.

To prevent me buying more crap on Ebay, inspire me with daft prompts or somesuch. Supernatural, Dark Angel or Buffy, I'm not fussy. You might get a ficlet or a drabble or just a couple of lines, lets see how we go.

ETA: New rule: I'll accept no more crossover prompts. The point of including the other fandoms was to get away from the Buffyverse!

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Ficlet: Tellin’ Porkies (BtVS)

bogwitch@livejournal.com — Thu, 16 Jul 2009 17:46:38 GMT

Anyone see this today on Yahoo UK & Ireland?

Yep, my mind went straight there…

Title: Tellin’ Porkies
Author: Bogwitch
Wordcount: 626
Characters: Spike, Dawn. Gen. PG for Spike’s bad influence.
Summary: Swine flu is no laughing matter. Post-Chosen.

“This is so, so bad,” Dawn gushed in a way that meant in no way was he meant to stop. “Do mine! Do mine!”

Spike did as he was told and punched the number she gave him into the cell phone. This wasn’t really the way he’d thought he’d bond again with the youngest Summers, but after all the years she’d been ignoring him with the coldest of shoulders, he would settle for what he could get. Besides, whatever his pesky soul might think, it felt good to be a little bit naughty – just this once.

The phone rang. Dawn moved closer, almost clambering over the arm of the chair in order to hear more. She was no longer the teenager he’d missed; the one that didn’t care if his influence wasn’t always a good one or who knew he was a bad man yet liked him anyway, she’d grown from the girl that had kept herself going by keeping him going when her sister was gone; instead this was a woman with the ink still wet on her degree, who had a bright future: a driven career girl who knew exactly what she wanted to do with her life. Yet, he was glad to see, the girl he’d known was still in there, young and irresponsible enough to get silly with a vampire more than old enough to know better.

“Hello,” a clipped telephone manner finally answered. “Harley Street Surgery Swine Flu Hotline. How can we help you?”

He gave Dawn a brief nod to tell her he’d got through, trying to keep his face as straight as possible to keep the laughter out of his voice. His partner in crime gave him an encouraging thumbs up.

“Uh, hi. I think I have this flu that’s hogging the news,” he said as seriously as he could. He even added some hoarseness to his voice, a hint of a cough to help sell the ruse.

Dawn desperately smothered her laugh with her hands. It came out as an awkward snort through her nose that Spike hoped hadn’t carried down the phone. There was money on this.

There was no reaction but absolute professionalism at the other end of the line. Maybe the woman hadn’t heard. “Can I ask what your symptoms are please?”

“Yeah. I um won’t boar you with all the details, but I’ve been sweating like a pig…”

Dawn’s face crumpled with the strain of not collapsing with the giggles. She grabbed a cushion, buried her face in it and let herself go.

The woman on the hotline wasn’t amused. “Who is this? Do you think you’re funny?”

Spike grinned at Dawn, who emerged from her refuge with tears streaking her cheeks. Knowing what he was aiming to say, she bit the edge of the cushion in readiness.

“Nah, I wouldn’t tell a porker like that.”

The woman slammed her phone down in disgust. Spike sighed; he hadn’t even got to mention the ‘bringing home the bacon’ bit.

“Oh god, that was so funny!” Delighted, Dawn wiped the tears away from her face. “And no mention of ‘oink’ means you lose!”

“Sod it. I made a pig’s ear of that.” Spike fumbled in his pocket for the fiver he owed her and she snatched it from her hand with a grin of pure triumph. “Right then, Nibs. I bet you that you won’t give Andrew a frenchie.” He waggled his tongue in case she had any doubt what he meant.

Dawn paled and thrust the note back at him. “Ugh. You can keep your money.”

Spike plucked it from her fingers, smirking a smirk tinged with a little of the old evil that still lingered in his black vampire heart.

That was the idea.

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