| Just One Fix |
[27 Nov 2006|12:26am] |
To be reunited with a world full of life, color, and hope was a heady experience. Scarcely three days had passed since Rhiannon and Deanna disappeared through the tear in the desert, but it felt like weeks. Panic made everything in that empty place sharper-- hunger, thirst, cold, danger... The desperation Rhiannon tasted there was still in her mouth, even after she went home to her apartment, cleaned up, and got a hold of herself. It was like coming up from a nightmare and not trusting anything good. She needed to experience it all, physically, to be sure it was there. To revel in reality. To see him.
She didn’t know how it’d be, looking at Whistler, knowing just the way he looked when he died. How his emaciated weight felt. That dozens or hundreds or millions of other realities might exist somewhere, and that in each of them, Whistler could be there. She could be there. That their stories might be so much worse, and that they could die without a concept of anything else-- Without the advantage that Rhiannon had now, whether it felt like one when she dreamed of it or not.
Rhiannon had been reminded to grasp this version of her life by the horns and do what she wanted with it. It wasn‘t enough for ‘what if’ to be played out in other lives. The most important thing was finding Whistler and making sure they were okay; that her stupid temper tantrum in his yard and his awkward confession didn’t drive a wedge.
She drove with a sense of urgency. Like by the time she got there, anything could happen, life could happen, and Whistler wouldn’t be there for her. Highway lines passed her tires in rapid yellow flashes. One cigarette after the next sparked by her cracked window. All was well until a bag of nerves settled in her abdomen, right as she pulled alongside his trailer and yanked the parking brake up.
It was like two times gravity to climb out of the car, like walking against an undertow to get up the path. What if all Rhiannon saw when she looked at him was his face without the eyes? What if he was angry from before, or embarrassed? What if she couldn‘t tell him? What if her fears sounded stupid?
She stood on his porch. Her fingers were on the door knob first, and then the frame. Fast as she drove to get there, much as she wanted to see his face, Rhiannon couldn’t get herself to knock.
The call in his brain was a steady drumbeat. Since his reinstatement, the Powers That Be had largely ignored him. Either all was right in the world -- ha -- or they were keeping him on the bench for a reason.
He was happy for that. The lack of travel, keeping up two jobs and developing the odd friendship, it was something he hadn't truly experienced for years.
Plus, Whistler got to spend more time with Rhiannon. But their last few encounters had been skewed. The ghost-light on the roof wasn't necessarily awkward but something always seemed to interrupt their moments together. The last time they spoke... he'd thought it was the last time, honestly. She drove off, left him behind. Again.
Whistler had tried calling but could never bring himself to leave a message. If the slayer wanted to talk to him, she'd do it on her own terms.
And the summons came. That pull whenever the Powers expected him to do their dirty work. It was loud and obnoxious, and that was the worst. It was big. Worse, it was vague. They wouldn't give up any information, like always Whistler was expected to put the pieces together and shuffle off to wherever.
And not a soft announcement this time. It was a clarion bell that refused to stop. He couldn't sleep for any length of time. He had to get people to repeat themselves as pieces of conversation would get washed away. The only way to shut the damn thing up was to answer it.
But he didn't. Whistler couldn't.
He wasn't leaving without first asking Rhiannon to forgive his earlier trespass. Whistler hated himself for always expecting her to make the first move. He resolved himself to reverse it this time, visit her home, her haunts, scour every inch of Searchlight, Las Vegas and all points in-between if necessary. He grabbed his car keys, stuffed them into his jacket and threw open the front door of the double-wide.
( Don't Go )
( What Did You See? )
( Wired )
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| Eight and Out |
[27 Nov 2006|10:33am] |
I.
“So dearie, what sortta story do yee have fer me, this fine eve?”
Officer Emma Tinsley had been coming to The Irish Wells on Thursday evenings, after her shift was over, for the better part of a year. She had fell in love with the bar instantly, upon the first Thursday that she had ever visited. It wasn’t planned; she certainly hadn’t been looking for any sort of weekly haunt. But the best kinds of love (and anyone who has any experience in this will agree) is the kind that takes a person completely by surprise.
She suspected that it was a combination of a few things. Firstly, it was a quiet place, offering a perfect haven in which to begin the process of unwinding from the previous week of work, and to being gearing herself up for the weekend. On rare occasion, she would bring with her whatever boy she might have been seeing, if they had been together for a few months, or if she was hoping for a little action later that night. Secondly, the interior of the place was the exact antithesis exterior. Outside, the building hardly looked as thought it could be up to code. But inside…inside was another story all together. The hardwood floors shined, faintly reflecting the legs of barstools or of billiards tables as they rose up from the ground. The coloring was dark, lending itself to shades of deep earthen and wine tones. The bar was set to match.
Behind the bar, possibly her favorite part all together, stood the bend old body of William “Mac” McAllister, proprietor and bar tender extraordinaire. The bar never seemed to busy, at least not on Thursday, and usually Emma and Mac exchanged stories for hours. Emma usually told Mac the ‘behind-the-scenes of what he read in the papers, and in exchange Mac told Emma stories of his life. She was amazed at his ability to weave words and situations together, much akin to the way that a master spider weaves webs and orbs. And much like said webs, his stories trapped her attention every time, and when Mac finally closed down for the night, she was always left with a feeling of content dissatisfaction that it would be another seven days before she came back.
Tonight, dark circles and a tired expression told Mac a wordless story. Emma was a pretty young woman who prided herself on her appearance, and it was rare that Mac ever saw her in any condition other than near perfect.
“Hey Mac,” she replied to his greeting with a tired, genuine smile. “Guinness?”
He smiled knowingly, and set about pouring the heavy drink into a cold glass mug.
She took a deep breath, sighing out the air her lungs had just brought in, and shook her head slowly from side to side as she looked down at the bar.
“I’ve had a day today, Mac. Tomorrow morning, the papers are probably going to be all over this one…”
( two )
( three )
( four )
( five )
( six )
( seven )
( eight )
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| Connor's Problem |
[27 Nov 2006|08:48pm] |
Jingle, jingle...
Connor looked up at the bell above the door of Unseen Insight as it sounded its cheery tune, then stepped fully into the shop. He was still a little out of sorts from the previous night's encounter with...whoever that had been, but he'd wanted to check the place out. Maybe Emmeline would have some kind of explanation.
Maybe. If he could bring himself to explain such lunacy to her.
He peered at the tall bookshelves, remembering the dozens if not hundreds of books Wesley had had in the Hyperion back in Los Angeles. Had Emmeline wanted to become a Watcher, or had it simply been expected of her? Perhaps he'd ask. The two of them seemed to have gotten past the first awkwardness of admitting they knew what they knew. It was at least worth finding out if they had or not.
Eight candles stood lined in a semi-circle atop the deep purple cloth that decked Emmy’s Tarot table in the small corner of her shop. Her chair pressed back against the raised platform that held her many books, she could peer out the plate glass window as she worked, leery of potential customers who might be scared off by the display. In spite of that worry, she did have work to do.
It was a simple enough endeavor: charting her own destiny, day by day, card by card. A simple three card spread, done every afternoon, and cataloged in a notebook to keep track. No specific question in mind, only a curiosity at what the future might hold.
The vision or whatever it had been still remained fresh in her mind, and she couldn’t help but worry that it was only a glimpse of things to come.
The first card was laid as the opening of the door sent a flicker through her candles: the Two of Swords.
"Hello? Anybody here?"
Connor's voice was very quiet, subdued, as if he were in a library. He glanced at the dark-bound books on the shelves again, took a few more steps into the quiet shop. He'd come by late on purpose, wanting to avoid curious day-trippers and random tourists. If he was going to speak seriously to someone, the last thing he wanted was an audience.
"Emmeline? Are you busy? I can come by later if you'd like."
( Breaking Concentration )
( In Dreams )
( Counter-Curses )
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