Misplaced Trust (Buffy/Supernatural)
Title :: Misplaced Trust
Rating :: FR15
Disclaimer :: Supernatural and all related characters are copyright Eric Kripke, Kripke Enterprises & The CW Network. Buffy the Vampire Slayer and all related characters are copyright Joss Whedon and ME. No infringement intended.
Synopsis :: Winter is a cold and bitter thing, but then so is Buffy. Misplaced Trust
Moonlight shifted, bending around the curves of a perfect cylinder of blown-glass as Buffy’s eyes narrowed, watched the play of light from a pool of warm cotton. The scent of sweat and sex lay heavy on the air and she shifted, pulling her knees up to cover her bare chest and winced at the slight twinge of discomfort that simple movement caused between her legs. Her lips rolled together, inward and she ignored the sensory memory of the hunter’s tugging teeth and nimble tongue against her scarred mouth.
Green eyes slide unconsciously to the left, toward the side of the bed closest to the door, and the back bared to her considering gaze. The muscles rolled and he slid closer to her, making an unintelligible mummer that tugged at emotions she’d long thought dead, buried. A hand reached out, traced light fingers down his warm skin, she’d never been good at mixing business with pleasure—Pike was a definite testament to that fact of her short-lived life.
Her other hand fisted in the thin cotton covering her knees and she pushed it down, baring her nude form to the same moonlight embracing the Orb of Thesulah. She frowned at her shallow pallor even as she was pulling herself quietly and carefully from the bed and toward her discarded clothes. The cargo pants felt awkward and heavy, settling odd on her narrow hips as she tied the string that held them, hopefully, in place. Her bra was simple white cotton and her stomach knot as she fastened the back, remembering his mouth settling over her nipple, sucking it through the soft fabric, melding it to her skin.
Pale hands smoothed the sides of her ribbed tank top, tugging it into place as she bent, snatching up her boots and tucking them tight against her chest as she turned to the bed. Stared at his bare, scar-riddled back, watched the steady and rise and fall of it as he breathed quietly, evenly in his sleep. Her mouth thinned, one of her own scars stretching, smoothing out as she just watched him, silent a moment. He was so human, almost normal and far too much like someone she could find herself growing attached to—like Pike.
She moved back toward the bed, gaze locked on him as a hand freed itself from its death grip on her Doc Martins to close the lid to the octagon-shaped box holding the orb. The lid made a soft ‘snick’ as the latched locked and she added it to her small bundle of uncomfortable leather before she padded barefoot to the door, gaze now intent on the narrow brass knob. She wouldn’t look back, she couldn’t.
Her jaw clenched with the sudden and intense cold as she stepped out onto the concrete walkway and closed the door between herself and the possibility of tomorrow. He was a one night stand, one last hurrah before she met a demon too tough for her to kill. One last moment of normalcy, she deserved that much, no matter what Pryce said or huffed on about. Her head bowed and Buffy used the long length of her hair to protect her shoulders and face as she slipped down the hallway and toward the stairs.
Taking them two at a time she ignored the burning in her chest, of her arms as her breath misted on the air in front of her and her feet struck colder asphalt. She winced, skipping around to the back of the staircase so that the wind was blocked before tugging on her socks and boots. Her teeth were chattering by the time she was done and she straightened, rubbing absently at her quickly numbing arms. With a determined squaring of her shoulders she snatched up the box, tucked it under her arm and turned, only to stop short at the sight of her hunter’s brother staring at her from the passenger side of the running Impala.
Their gazes locked, his mouth turning down at the corners as he put his shoulder against the door and it groaned its way opened, spilling him into the cold with her. She glanced to the side, debated the chance of her making it around the far corner before he pulled one of the numerous guns the brothers seemed to materialize from nowhere—like she did her stakes.
“You’re stealing from us.”
Those quietly uttered words narrowed her eyes and she shrugged her goosebump covered shoulders. “Your point being?”
“Dean trusted you.”
She winced, telling herself it was because of the cold and not because Sam was forcing her to giver the hunter, her lover a name. “I reiterate. Your point?”
A muscle tensed in his jaw and she watched his nostrils flare before he controlled the instant burn of his anger. “You didn’t have to steal it. He would have given it to you.”
He blinked, thrown by the confession. “Then why?”
Her mouth opened and closed as she swallowed the urge to tell him it was easier to take then ask and instead she threw her spite, her anger with herself at him. “Why not? It’s not like we’re friends,” her brows rose, voice biting as she added snidely, “or family. It’s not like either of you actually give a damn about me. I’m just a warm body to him and you…” her head cocked, eyes narrowing as she prompted, “What am I to you, Sam?”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re someone Bobby trusts.”
He stressed the word ‘trust’ enough that she understood he felt it was misplaced and maybe he was right, maybe becoming the Slayer had killed that part of her. It felt dead, her humanity completely gone. “Whatever,” was muttered softly as she shoved her way past him.
The sharp bite of his tone stung and she flinched, ducking her chin as she gave him her profile. A line appeared between her brows as he shrugged out of his coat and offered it to her, arm outstretched. She hesitated only a moment before her thighs tensed as she spun on her boot heel and snatched what he offered, tugging it on while juggling the box.
Sam’s head cocked as he watched her a moment before lifting his chin. “Come on.”
The suspicious tone to her question spilled a knowing smirk across Sam’s features. “Let’s go talk over crappy food.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Sam turned back to her, met her confused frown with a neutral look. “Because Bobby doesn’t trust just anyone.”
She stared after him as he made his way back toward the running Impala and opened the driver’s door before sliding behind the wheel. Her jaw tensed, eyes shifting down to the box her Watcher had sent her to obtain before she shrugged and followed Sam—Pryce sucked anyway. The end.
Note :: I like the Wish-verse version of Buffy. Expect more of her.