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tamingthemuseTitle: Give up the Ghost
Chapter 5:Part A: ready or not
Word Count: 3200
Prompt: #452 scullion @![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
tamingthemuse
Rating: FR13
Disclaimer: BtVS and all related characters are copyright of Joss Whedon and ME. The Alpha and Omega Series and all related characters are copyright of Patricia Briggs and Ace. No infringement intended.
Summary: Leah Cornick was a lot of things (most of them bad), but none would’ve guessed that she was a Slayer trapped within a wish.
A sleepless night had left Buffy with the usual aches and pains, but the bruising beneath her eyes had been dealt with using Leah’s stash of cosmetics and a deft hand. Buffy wasn’t sure if the skill had come from her extensive knowledge of how to cover a shiner or Leah’s need to always look her best. Regardless, she’d gotten the job done with little fuss and somehow managed to make herself appear well rested—makeup, in the right hands, was more powerful than magic.
Her hair, however, had been a process. The sheer amount of time she’d spent with the hairdryer meant she was stylist bound the first time Bran’s back was turned. Leah had kept it long because her mate liked it that way, but Bran didn’t have to take care of it. Buffy just had to play nice with Sage to trick her into divulging where she went to get hers done, all snippiness aside, Sage had fantastic hair. The trick would be convincing the other wolf to do something their alpha wouldn’t like and that Buffy was doing it for practical reasons. Not out of spite.
It helped that Sage liked to yank the tails of older wolves—just as long as she didn’t yank Buffy’s while her control was as fragile as a hummingbird’s wing. For now her hair was draped over her shoulder in a fishtail braid. It’d been Leah’s knowhow that had gotten it done, knotted hair and frustration had always come from her own attempts, but Leah had lived in a time when waking in the predawn hours with barely a light to guide her was the norm. Buffy had found her fingers moving of their own accord once she’d settled on the style.
Raiding the closet had been next on that morning’s agenda and after dressing Buffy had been left with several neatly folded piles of clothes that were to be donated. Most of Leah’s wardrobe was salvageable, but nothing was going to get her back into the tracksuits she apparently owned in abundance. It was time she stopped dressing as if she were Bran’s mother. If he wanted to play the eternal teenager she’d do her best to make it look as if he was dating out of his league rather than out of his age group and something about that left her feeling smug.
Layering a light denim shirt over dark skinny jeans was not something Leah would’ve attempted and Buffy had paired the ensemble with ankle boots and a burgundy scarf. She’d taken a moment to search out a few fashion websites before getting into the shower that morning. The times had changed outside of Aspen Creek and she intended to keep up with them from that moment forward. She was also well aware that she was focusing on the inconsequential to distract herself from the constant presence of the beast in her gut and Bran in her head.
She needed—not wanted—his control to keep that snarling part of her under wraps, but his beast might’ve taken too keen an interest in her own. The part of her that was all Leah was thrilled by the prospect that their mate was noticing them, but also pissed that it’d taken him this long and a crisis to give a damn. Her irritation only fed her beast and Buffy adjusted her earrings before leaving the relative safety of her bedroom in search of her mate since closer proximity tended to help—even when she was annoyed with him.
The scent of bacon drew her down the hall and towards the kitchen. Bran hadn’t been awake as long as her, but she’d heard him puttering around when she’d gotten out of the shower. She found him in the center of the kitchen. It had always been his domain, which is why she’d taken such petty joy in tossing him from it last night, and Buffy the oddest sensation that she wasn’t welcome. Her chin lifted, shoulders back as she forced her way past that inkling and herself into the kitchen. That seemed to settle her beast—who welcomed all challengers.
Bran’s back was to her and his nicely shaped shoulders were covered by a threadbare t-shirt that might’ve been navy at one time, but was now closer to grey. The seams had paled to white from too many washes and his bare feet scrapped over the stone floor as he turned around and the sight of his face, even pinched in concentration, made her stomach knot. Buffy glanced down at his chest, choosing for the moment to ignore his annoyingly good looks, and noticed that there had been writing on the front of the shirt at one time, but it had faded to just indents in the fabric.
“Help yourself.” He took her in with one quick sweep of his gaze before he motioned to the plate of bacon already on the counter. “You need to eat.”
“Have I ever told you what a turn on it is when you order me around?” Buffy inquired as she finished making her way to the island at the center of the kitchen.
Pale eyes narrowed and she raised a brow in answer to that challenge before Bran sighed, “Do I need to teach you how to smell a lie? Again?”
“Do you need to relearn sarcasm?” Buffy smirked and accepted the invitation of bacon since she was hungry and not because he’d ordered it. Bran shook his head and went back to the griddle taking up half the stovetop. Snagging a crispy piece Buffy inclined her head at the oddly shaped pancakes Bran was making before offering, “Need any help?”
He glanced back at her and Buffy noticed he hadn’t bothered to shave that morning. “The potatoes need peeling.”
“I’m back to scullery work already?” She crunched her way through the slice of bacon as she made her way over to the stove to retrieve the peeler before dragging out the trashcan.
“I liked your lasagna,” Bran offered and her brows rose, but he finished the thought with, “I just can’t trust you with pancakes again.”
“One little fire,” Buffy sighed.
“One little kitchen remodel.” Bran countered.
She scoffed to cover her snort of amusement before snagging herself another piece of bacon and munching as she gathered the freshly washed potatoes from the sink. “Are you making hash?”
“Home fries,” Bran looked back at her, “I can make hash for dinner.”
Buffy stiffened with the offer, but saw through the ruse. “Intending for us to be talking all day again, do you?”
“You’ve got a lifetime worth of stories to share,” Bran turned back to the stove and what looked like Mickey Mouse shaped pancakes.
“Over several days,” Buffy countered as she began short, sure strokes to remove the skin from the potato. “As we discussed last night.”
“Careful,” he stated, his back still to her, “You lost the tip of your finger the last time you used a peeler.”
“It was the tip of my nail and a little bit of skin,” Buffy huffed and returned to her peeling.
They worked in relative silence for the next several minutes as Buffy made her way steadily through the potatoes with one of the songs she’d been listening to the day before stuck in her head. Charles and Anna were going to pick up Dawn and Illyria on their way to Bran’s for breakfast. She’d been told as much through the door of her bedroom while she got dressed and she was starting to regret her choice in attire since the scarf kept falling getting in her way. Since it was the statement piece of the ensemble she refrained from removing it and instead worked around it, but kept a careful eye on her finger placement.
“What are you humming?”
Buffy blinked, confused by the intrusion on her menial task and she glanced up to see Bran plating what looked to be his forth batch of pancakes. “Huh?”
He added more batter to the griddle and questioned, “You’re humming. What song is it?”
“You wouldn’t like it,” Buffy assured him and went back to peeling the potatoes, “It’s from this decade.”
“Try me.”
She raised a brow at her own hands and then realized Bran couldn’t see it so she presented him with her bemused expression. “You want me to sing?”
He watched the bubbling of one of the pancakes a moment before stating, “Why not?”
“Because you’ve made it abundantly clear over the years that I can’t sing.”
“You can sing,” Bran countered and flipped the rest of the pancakes before turning around so that he could see her fully as he finished, “You just can’t sing the songs you choose to sing.”
The other brow rose to meet its sister and Buffy simply stared at him. He crossed his arms—which made him look ridiculous with his batter-covered spatula—and leaned against the counter as if he had all the time in the world. “Your pancakes will burn.”
“Your pancakes would burn.” Bran countered.
Thrusting her bottom jaw forward and narrowing her eyes, Buffy glared at Bran while he continued to watch her, but the crunch of tires over slush stopped her from having to retort. Bran glanced towards the front of the house before shaking his head and Buffy got the nagging suspicion he thought her a coward. Adding that to the fact that she knew he wouldn’t like her musical choice gave her the gumption to sing the first verse, “So much pressure, why so loud? If you don’t like my sound you can turn it down.”
Bran spun back around, his gaze wide and a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. She saw his brows pinch with her use of the phrase ‘braggadocios’, but through their bond she felt encouragement, but mostly amusement.
It gave her the courage to continue when the front door opened and, unsurprisingly, it was Anna that slipped easily into the song with her on the chorus. “I still fall on my face sometimes and I, can’t color inside the lines. Cause I’m perfectly incomplete. I’m still working on my masterpiece.”
Buffy chose to stop then and shared a welcoming smile with Anna while Dawn watched her. “This group sings a lot,” she offered her sister while Anna remained at her side.
“It’s not that,” Dawn shook her head, “It’s just that I don’t think I’ve heard you sing since Sweet.”
“Let’s save the singing demons talk for after breakfast.” Buffy looked to Bran and narrowed her eyes in challenge, “How do you want these cut up?”
He removed the current batch of pancakes from the griddle before turning around. He studied the twelve freshly peeled potatoes a moment before offering, “Cubed. About the width of your thumb.”
The hairs along her neck rose and her beast shifted beneath her skin as Illyria entered the kitchen. Buffy tracked her out of the corner of her eye as the Old One made her way through the room and took a place at the dining table. It placed her neatly at her back and gave Illyria an uninterrupted view of all the kitchen’s occupants. Charles followed her, but remained standing between the two rooms—apparently she wasn’t the only one feeling uneasy about Illyria.
Surprised by her look of gratitude, if the slight widening of his gaze was anything to go by, Charles then inclined his head in acknowledgment. Buffy smiled when Anna placed an encouraging hand on her forearm. The smile was returned and she looked at Dawn, taking in her oversized sweater and jeans, before making her way to the sink to drop off the peeler. Bran added more pancake batter to the griddle as she retrieved a knife and a cutting board from the cabinets.
Returning to the potatoes, while Anna made her way closer to Charles, Buffy caught Dawn’s gaze. “You changed your clothes?”
“I do that,” Dawn agreed, “I’m known for it actually.”
Bran’s lips quirked and Buffy could feel his amusement with the fact that someone was giving her the sarcastic treatment—it was a family trait. “I meant. You didn’t have luggage with you last night.”
“Magic,” Dawn wiggled her fingers in front of her, “It’s a simple enough spell that involves pocket dimensions and my blood.”
Fear tightened her chest before her heart surged to life in a tempo that stole her breath. Buffy’s head bowed as she allowed the memories of Glory, a bleeding Dawn and a leap that ended her life to flow over her. She tried her best not to hold onto any particular memory as she’d done a few times last night. Holding onto them led to panic attacks while the beast rose to protect her from the past. They’d started with the nightmares, but had apparently decided to stick around.
She’d lost time because Bran was suddenly beside her and his arms were wrapped around her. He pressed her head to his chest as she listened to his heart beat a similar tempo against her ear and she realized, belatedly, he was still getting an echo of her emotions. Bran was clever enough to have thinned their connection after the first onslaught, but he wasn’t immune to them.
Buffy inhaled the scent of burning. Her nose wrinkled as she watched Anna make her way to the stove, but it was too late. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as Buffy reminded Bran, “What was that about me burning pancakes?”
Irritation churned in the connection between them before relief at her wellbeing won out. Buffy focused on calming her beast by looking at Dawn to show it she was alive and well. Dawn returned her study with one of her own before her eyes widened, the pieces falling into place. “My magic is fueled by my blood. The more powerful the spell the more blood I have to spill.”
“I don’t like that.”
“I didn’t think you would,” Dawn agreed and the smile she offered the room was wistful, “It’s been a long while someone cared that much.”
Anna, her head still down as she removed the burnt batter from the griddle, offered, “It sounds like you’ve been keeping the wrong kind of company.”
Charles’ mouth quirked and Bran’s arms tightened around her a bit since it was Anna insulting Illyria. Buffy had offered him a little background on the Old One last night, but she knew it disturbed him that she smelled entirely human while making their wolves protest her close proximity.
“Why don’t we eat?” Charles offered from his place between the rooms, “I have a feeling this is going to be another long day.”
“Agreed,” Bran ordered and pressed his lips to the crown of Buffy’s head before returning to the stove, “Besides I need to make more pancakes and get the potatoes in the oven.”
Dawn’s brows rose and she glanced around food already present on the island. “Are you feeding an army?”
“We wolves eat a lot,” Anna offered as she took over for Buffy in cutting the potatoes, “It has to do with our high metabolism.”
“Slayers had the same issue,” Dawn looked at Buffy, “This is actually the healthiest weight I’ve seen you at since high school.”
Buffy replied by snagging another piece of crispy bacon for her and a softer piece for Dawn. Her little sister might’ve whined the previous day about her raw beef consumption but she’d always liked her meat underdone. It had led to many an upset stomach during her formative years. Dawn accepted the strip and took a bit that made her hum in happiness. “I haven’t had bacon in what feels like ages.”
“Not since before our travels. Seventy-four years to be exact,” Illyria stated from her place at the table and expanded on the concept when the room’s occupants looked to her, “Though not precise. I have been informed that stating the exact duration of time is off-putting.” She raised a brow at Dawn before adding. “We did not remain if the world was not the one that housed you. We searched and moved on.”
Buffy paused mid-chew to look aghast at Dawn. Quickly, she finished the bite, but winced when the half-masticated piece went down a bit painfully before she questioned, “Seventy-four years? Dawn, you looked for me for seventy-four years?”
Dawn stared at her with wide eyes before she swallowed her own bite. “I had nothing better to do?” was paired with a weak shrug.
“Why?” Buffy shook her head, “Why would you waste your life?”
“Stop it!” Dawn snapped and stepped forward to invade Buffy’s personal space as Anna backed up to make room for her. “You are worth a thousand years of searching! You’re my family. You’re all I have.”
The sadness in Dawn’s admission brought a whine up from Buffy’s chest and it tumbled out her throat. Dawn caught the hand closet to her, bacon and all, to clutch it tight as she studied her face. “You would’ve done the same for me,” she assured her.
“Irregardless,” Illyria interrupted their moment, “Once the journey had begun the only end was you.” Buffy and Dawn turned in unison and watched Illyria incline her head as she in turn studied them, “You were our destination. You are why we exist in this world now.”
“Disappointed?” Buffy questioned.
Her gaze took in the rest of the room’s occupants. “You have told your king of me?”
She nodded. “The cliff notes version.”
The quirking of her mouth brought Buffy forward, stepping in front of Dawn, as Illyria rose from the table and her human façade collapsed. Her flesh paled, marbling with fissures of blue and silver as her hair straightened and became as patch-worked as the rest of her. The armor absorbed her clothing, leaching its way forward to cover her from fingers to toes and the musty scent was filled with old blood and more visceral things.
She smelt of war—and Buffy wasn’t sure if that thought was hers or Bran’s.
There was an ache in her bones and the beast within her snarled to life as Illyria’s gaze locked with her own. The fixed pupils had always reminded her of something reptilian while her movements were as awkward as a bird’s on land. Battle was Illyria’s air. It was her grace and when she was most in control.
Charles moved so that he was between Illyria and Buffy—he sensed a battle to come—and the gold in his gaze told Buffy he wasn’t as unaffected as his scent made him appear. Bran was a storm at her back and Anna stepped forward to place herself beside Buffy, but she didn’t take her hand or attempt to quell her beast. Something told Buffy that was Charles’ doing.
“The gloves are off?” Buffy questioned, her beast added a growled edge to the words.
“Indeed.” Illyria’s gaze settled on Bran and Buffy braced herself for his wrath when she said something derogatory. “I require sustenance. Are the pancakes ready?”
Buffy blinked and then frowned, “Huh,” apparently even Old Ones learned new tricks.
Chapter 5:Part A: ready or not
Word Count: 3200
Prompt: #452 scullion @
tamingthemuseRating: FR13
Disclaimer: BtVS and all related characters are copyright of Joss Whedon and ME. The Alpha and Omega Series and all related characters are copyright of Patricia Briggs and Ace. No infringement intended.
Summary: Leah Cornick was a lot of things (most of them bad), but none would’ve guessed that she was a Slayer trapped within a wish.
A sleepless night had left Buffy with the usual aches and pains, but the bruising beneath her eyes had been dealt with using Leah’s stash of cosmetics and a deft hand. Buffy wasn’t sure if the skill had come from her extensive knowledge of how to cover a shiner or Leah’s need to always look her best. Regardless, she’d gotten the job done with little fuss and somehow managed to make herself appear well rested—makeup, in the right hands, was more powerful than magic.
Her hair, however, had been a process. The sheer amount of time she’d spent with the hairdryer meant she was stylist bound the first time Bran’s back was turned. Leah had kept it long because her mate liked it that way, but Bran didn’t have to take care of it. Buffy just had to play nice with Sage to trick her into divulging where she went to get hers done, all snippiness aside, Sage had fantastic hair. The trick would be convincing the other wolf to do something their alpha wouldn’t like and that Buffy was doing it for practical reasons. Not out of spite.
It helped that Sage liked to yank the tails of older wolves—just as long as she didn’t yank Buffy’s while her control was as fragile as a hummingbird’s wing. For now her hair was draped over her shoulder in a fishtail braid. It’d been Leah’s knowhow that had gotten it done, knotted hair and frustration had always come from her own attempts, but Leah had lived in a time when waking in the predawn hours with barely a light to guide her was the norm. Buffy had found her fingers moving of their own accord once she’d settled on the style.
Raiding the closet had been next on that morning’s agenda and after dressing Buffy had been left with several neatly folded piles of clothes that were to be donated. Most of Leah’s wardrobe was salvageable, but nothing was going to get her back into the tracksuits she apparently owned in abundance. It was time she stopped dressing as if she were Bran’s mother. If he wanted to play the eternal teenager she’d do her best to make it look as if he was dating out of his league rather than out of his age group and something about that left her feeling smug.
Layering a light denim shirt over dark skinny jeans was not something Leah would’ve attempted and Buffy had paired the ensemble with ankle boots and a burgundy scarf. She’d taken a moment to search out a few fashion websites before getting into the shower that morning. The times had changed outside of Aspen Creek and she intended to keep up with them from that moment forward. She was also well aware that she was focusing on the inconsequential to distract herself from the constant presence of the beast in her gut and Bran in her head.
She needed—not wanted—his control to keep that snarling part of her under wraps, but his beast might’ve taken too keen an interest in her own. The part of her that was all Leah was thrilled by the prospect that their mate was noticing them, but also pissed that it’d taken him this long and a crisis to give a damn. Her irritation only fed her beast and Buffy adjusted her earrings before leaving the relative safety of her bedroom in search of her mate since closer proximity tended to help—even when she was annoyed with him.
The scent of bacon drew her down the hall and towards the kitchen. Bran hadn’t been awake as long as her, but she’d heard him puttering around when she’d gotten out of the shower. She found him in the center of the kitchen. It had always been his domain, which is why she’d taken such petty joy in tossing him from it last night, and Buffy the oddest sensation that she wasn’t welcome. Her chin lifted, shoulders back as she forced her way past that inkling and herself into the kitchen. That seemed to settle her beast—who welcomed all challengers.
Bran’s back was to her and his nicely shaped shoulders were covered by a threadbare t-shirt that might’ve been navy at one time, but was now closer to grey. The seams had paled to white from too many washes and his bare feet scrapped over the stone floor as he turned around and the sight of his face, even pinched in concentration, made her stomach knot. Buffy glanced down at his chest, choosing for the moment to ignore his annoyingly good looks, and noticed that there had been writing on the front of the shirt at one time, but it had faded to just indents in the fabric.
“Help yourself.” He took her in with one quick sweep of his gaze before he motioned to the plate of bacon already on the counter. “You need to eat.”
“Have I ever told you what a turn on it is when you order me around?” Buffy inquired as she finished making her way to the island at the center of the kitchen.
Pale eyes narrowed and she raised a brow in answer to that challenge before Bran sighed, “Do I need to teach you how to smell a lie? Again?”
“Do you need to relearn sarcasm?” Buffy smirked and accepted the invitation of bacon since she was hungry and not because he’d ordered it. Bran shook his head and went back to the griddle taking up half the stovetop. Snagging a crispy piece Buffy inclined her head at the oddly shaped pancakes Bran was making before offering, “Need any help?”
He glanced back at her and Buffy noticed he hadn’t bothered to shave that morning. “The potatoes need peeling.”
“I’m back to scullery work already?” She crunched her way through the slice of bacon as she made her way over to the stove to retrieve the peeler before dragging out the trashcan.
“I liked your lasagna,” Bran offered and her brows rose, but he finished the thought with, “I just can’t trust you with pancakes again.”
“One little fire,” Buffy sighed.
“One little kitchen remodel.” Bran countered.
She scoffed to cover her snort of amusement before snagging herself another piece of bacon and munching as she gathered the freshly washed potatoes from the sink. “Are you making hash?”
“Home fries,” Bran looked back at her, “I can make hash for dinner.”
Buffy stiffened with the offer, but saw through the ruse. “Intending for us to be talking all day again, do you?”
“You’ve got a lifetime worth of stories to share,” Bran turned back to the stove and what looked like Mickey Mouse shaped pancakes.
“Over several days,” Buffy countered as she began short, sure strokes to remove the skin from the potato. “As we discussed last night.”
“Careful,” he stated, his back still to her, “You lost the tip of your finger the last time you used a peeler.”
“It was the tip of my nail and a little bit of skin,” Buffy huffed and returned to her peeling.
They worked in relative silence for the next several minutes as Buffy made her way steadily through the potatoes with one of the songs she’d been listening to the day before stuck in her head. Charles and Anna were going to pick up Dawn and Illyria on their way to Bran’s for breakfast. She’d been told as much through the door of her bedroom while she got dressed and she was starting to regret her choice in attire since the scarf kept falling getting in her way. Since it was the statement piece of the ensemble she refrained from removing it and instead worked around it, but kept a careful eye on her finger placement.
“What are you humming?”
Buffy blinked, confused by the intrusion on her menial task and she glanced up to see Bran plating what looked to be his forth batch of pancakes. “Huh?”
He added more batter to the griddle and questioned, “You’re humming. What song is it?”
“You wouldn’t like it,” Buffy assured him and went back to peeling the potatoes, “It’s from this decade.”
“Try me.”
She raised a brow at her own hands and then realized Bran couldn’t see it so she presented him with her bemused expression. “You want me to sing?”
He watched the bubbling of one of the pancakes a moment before stating, “Why not?”
“Because you’ve made it abundantly clear over the years that I can’t sing.”
“You can sing,” Bran countered and flipped the rest of the pancakes before turning around so that he could see her fully as he finished, “You just can’t sing the songs you choose to sing.”
The other brow rose to meet its sister and Buffy simply stared at him. He crossed his arms—which made him look ridiculous with his batter-covered spatula—and leaned against the counter as if he had all the time in the world. “Your pancakes will burn.”
“Your pancakes would burn.” Bran countered.
Thrusting her bottom jaw forward and narrowing her eyes, Buffy glared at Bran while he continued to watch her, but the crunch of tires over slush stopped her from having to retort. Bran glanced towards the front of the house before shaking his head and Buffy got the nagging suspicion he thought her a coward. Adding that to the fact that she knew he wouldn’t like her musical choice gave her the gumption to sing the first verse, “So much pressure, why so loud? If you don’t like my sound you can turn it down.”
Bran spun back around, his gaze wide and a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. She saw his brows pinch with her use of the phrase ‘braggadocios’, but through their bond she felt encouragement, but mostly amusement.
It gave her the courage to continue when the front door opened and, unsurprisingly, it was Anna that slipped easily into the song with her on the chorus. “I still fall on my face sometimes and I, can’t color inside the lines. Cause I’m perfectly incomplete. I’m still working on my masterpiece.”
Buffy chose to stop then and shared a welcoming smile with Anna while Dawn watched her. “This group sings a lot,” she offered her sister while Anna remained at her side.
“It’s not that,” Dawn shook her head, “It’s just that I don’t think I’ve heard you sing since Sweet.”
“Let’s save the singing demons talk for after breakfast.” Buffy looked to Bran and narrowed her eyes in challenge, “How do you want these cut up?”
He removed the current batch of pancakes from the griddle before turning around. He studied the twelve freshly peeled potatoes a moment before offering, “Cubed. About the width of your thumb.”
The hairs along her neck rose and her beast shifted beneath her skin as Illyria entered the kitchen. Buffy tracked her out of the corner of her eye as the Old One made her way through the room and took a place at the dining table. It placed her neatly at her back and gave Illyria an uninterrupted view of all the kitchen’s occupants. Charles followed her, but remained standing between the two rooms—apparently she wasn’t the only one feeling uneasy about Illyria.
Surprised by her look of gratitude, if the slight widening of his gaze was anything to go by, Charles then inclined his head in acknowledgment. Buffy smiled when Anna placed an encouraging hand on her forearm. The smile was returned and she looked at Dawn, taking in her oversized sweater and jeans, before making her way to the sink to drop off the peeler. Bran added more pancake batter to the griddle as she retrieved a knife and a cutting board from the cabinets.
Returning to the potatoes, while Anna made her way closer to Charles, Buffy caught Dawn’s gaze. “You changed your clothes?”
“I do that,” Dawn agreed, “I’m known for it actually.”
Bran’s lips quirked and Buffy could feel his amusement with the fact that someone was giving her the sarcastic treatment—it was a family trait. “I meant. You didn’t have luggage with you last night.”
“Magic,” Dawn wiggled her fingers in front of her, “It’s a simple enough spell that involves pocket dimensions and my blood.”
Fear tightened her chest before her heart surged to life in a tempo that stole her breath. Buffy’s head bowed as she allowed the memories of Glory, a bleeding Dawn and a leap that ended her life to flow over her. She tried her best not to hold onto any particular memory as she’d done a few times last night. Holding onto them led to panic attacks while the beast rose to protect her from the past. They’d started with the nightmares, but had apparently decided to stick around.
She’d lost time because Bran was suddenly beside her and his arms were wrapped around her. He pressed her head to his chest as she listened to his heart beat a similar tempo against her ear and she realized, belatedly, he was still getting an echo of her emotions. Bran was clever enough to have thinned their connection after the first onslaught, but he wasn’t immune to them.
Buffy inhaled the scent of burning. Her nose wrinkled as she watched Anna make her way to the stove, but it was too late. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as Buffy reminded Bran, “What was that about me burning pancakes?”
Irritation churned in the connection between them before relief at her wellbeing won out. Buffy focused on calming her beast by looking at Dawn to show it she was alive and well. Dawn returned her study with one of her own before her eyes widened, the pieces falling into place. “My magic is fueled by my blood. The more powerful the spell the more blood I have to spill.”
“I don’t like that.”
“I didn’t think you would,” Dawn agreed and the smile she offered the room was wistful, “It’s been a long while someone cared that much.”
Anna, her head still down as she removed the burnt batter from the griddle, offered, “It sounds like you’ve been keeping the wrong kind of company.”
Charles’ mouth quirked and Bran’s arms tightened around her a bit since it was Anna insulting Illyria. Buffy had offered him a little background on the Old One last night, but she knew it disturbed him that she smelled entirely human while making their wolves protest her close proximity.
“Why don’t we eat?” Charles offered from his place between the rooms, “I have a feeling this is going to be another long day.”
“Agreed,” Bran ordered and pressed his lips to the crown of Buffy’s head before returning to the stove, “Besides I need to make more pancakes and get the potatoes in the oven.”
Dawn’s brows rose and she glanced around food already present on the island. “Are you feeding an army?”
“We wolves eat a lot,” Anna offered as she took over for Buffy in cutting the potatoes, “It has to do with our high metabolism.”
“Slayers had the same issue,” Dawn looked at Buffy, “This is actually the healthiest weight I’ve seen you at since high school.”
Buffy replied by snagging another piece of crispy bacon for her and a softer piece for Dawn. Her little sister might’ve whined the previous day about her raw beef consumption but she’d always liked her meat underdone. It had led to many an upset stomach during her formative years. Dawn accepted the strip and took a bit that made her hum in happiness. “I haven’t had bacon in what feels like ages.”
“Not since before our travels. Seventy-four years to be exact,” Illyria stated from her place at the table and expanded on the concept when the room’s occupants looked to her, “Though not precise. I have been informed that stating the exact duration of time is off-putting.” She raised a brow at Dawn before adding. “We did not remain if the world was not the one that housed you. We searched and moved on.”
Buffy paused mid-chew to look aghast at Dawn. Quickly, she finished the bite, but winced when the half-masticated piece went down a bit painfully before she questioned, “Seventy-four years? Dawn, you looked for me for seventy-four years?”
Dawn stared at her with wide eyes before she swallowed her own bite. “I had nothing better to do?” was paired with a weak shrug.
“Why?” Buffy shook her head, “Why would you waste your life?”
“Stop it!” Dawn snapped and stepped forward to invade Buffy’s personal space as Anna backed up to make room for her. “You are worth a thousand years of searching! You’re my family. You’re all I have.”
The sadness in Dawn’s admission brought a whine up from Buffy’s chest and it tumbled out her throat. Dawn caught the hand closet to her, bacon and all, to clutch it tight as she studied her face. “You would’ve done the same for me,” she assured her.
“Irregardless,” Illyria interrupted their moment, “Once the journey had begun the only end was you.” Buffy and Dawn turned in unison and watched Illyria incline her head as she in turn studied them, “You were our destination. You are why we exist in this world now.”
“Disappointed?” Buffy questioned.
Her gaze took in the rest of the room’s occupants. “You have told your king of me?”
She nodded. “The cliff notes version.”
The quirking of her mouth brought Buffy forward, stepping in front of Dawn, as Illyria rose from the table and her human façade collapsed. Her flesh paled, marbling with fissures of blue and silver as her hair straightened and became as patch-worked as the rest of her. The armor absorbed her clothing, leaching its way forward to cover her from fingers to toes and the musty scent was filled with old blood and more visceral things.
She smelt of war—and Buffy wasn’t sure if that thought was hers or Bran’s.
There was an ache in her bones and the beast within her snarled to life as Illyria’s gaze locked with her own. The fixed pupils had always reminded her of something reptilian while her movements were as awkward as a bird’s on land. Battle was Illyria’s air. It was her grace and when she was most in control.
Charles moved so that he was between Illyria and Buffy—he sensed a battle to come—and the gold in his gaze told Buffy he wasn’t as unaffected as his scent made him appear. Bran was a storm at her back and Anna stepped forward to place herself beside Buffy, but she didn’t take her hand or attempt to quell her beast. Something told Buffy that was Charles’ doing.
“The gloves are off?” Buffy questioned, her beast added a growled edge to the words.
“Indeed.” Illyria’s gaze settled on Bran and Buffy braced herself for his wrath when she said something derogatory. “I require sustenance. Are the pancakes ready?”
Buffy blinked and then frowned, “Huh,” apparently even Old Ones learned new tricks.
