Disclaimer: Buffy and Smallville belong to other people. I don't make money or intend any infringment and all that.
“Faith. Faith, you have to talk to me.”
Lex stood awkwardly in the middle of his office, watching the dark haired woman. She stood near the window, looking out at the fields that surrounded the Luthor Mansion.
“Faith,” he barked. She turned around.
“Lex,” she replied. Her face was emotionless; she was hiding behind the darkest of the tall walls that she had erected around herself.
“I had my best people looking for you,” he said accusingly. “Where were you hiding?”
“I wasn’t hiding, Mr. Luthor,” she said, voice low and seductive. “Not everything’s about you.”
Lex slammed his hands on the surface of his glass desk. No one could infuriate him the way that Faith could. When he was around her, high blood pressure and tight muscles were practically a given. He both hated it and missed it desperately once it was gone.
“Are you seriously telling me,” he yelled, “that you taking off one morning, with our daughter in tow, had nothing to do with me?”
“I was in Cleveland,” she said finally, raising her chin and pursing her lips defiantly. “And it had everything to do with you.”
“I supported you,” Lex shot back. “I stayed with you through the pregnancy; gave you everything you asked for—”
“To keep me quiet,” Faith interrupted. “I got a luxury suite in the Luthor Mansion so that news of your bastard child would stay out of the media.”
“Don’t you dare,” Lex hissed, “call her that.” He advanced on Faith, making like he was about to grab her.
“If you touch me,” Faith said quietly, “you will regret it.”
His hands dropped to his sides and he took a step back. “I wanted you,” he said. “I wanted to marry you and have a life with you.”
“You didn’t love me,” Faith replied. “You loved my body. You loved what I could do to you. You never loved me. There isn’t such a thing as love, not like that.”
“I could have loved you, if you had let me.” Their eyes met.
Faith approached him and soon, her face was close to his. Her body wasn’t softening, though; it was tensed, confrontational. “If such a thing as love were possible,” she whispered, “a creature like you wouldn’t be able to feel it.”
With a snarl of rage, Lex pushed her aside. She didn’t even stumble, but watched, intrigued, as he took his anger out on his desk, wiping it clean with one swipe. He grabbed Faith and slammed her onto the surface of the glass table.
“Tell me,” he growled, “why you left.”
Faith blinked innocently up at him, as though she really had just been overpowered. “Oh Lex,” she said breathlessly. “Hurt me again.”
He screamed and lifted her at the shoulders, before crashing her down onto the glass again.
“You’re a monster, Lex,” she whispered. “I’ve done some terrible things in my time, but your morals are so out of whack you can’t even tell up from down.”
She threw him off and kicked out, knocking his feet from under him. He fell to one knee and looked up at her, as though anticipating the next blow.
“When you looked at our daughter,” she said, “I could see you plotting. I could hear you talking to the scientists, as though this was the best thing that had ever happened to you. If the Slayer gene were genetic, you were reasoning, if it were passed on to the second generation, then it was something that could be stolen and recreated.
“Before she was even born, you had scientists surrounding me, wondering, will this pregnancy be normal? Will the baby have four heads or three hearts? We were a science project to you, Lex, nothing more.”
She offered him her hand, and he looked at it suspiciously, as though it might bite.
“Buffy brought you dozens of girls prepared to partake in your experiments, but, from the day she was born, you had our daughter pegged as an unwilling participant,” Faith continued. Lex struggled to his feet without her help.
“It wasn’t going to happen,” she said. “Not under my watch.”
Lex watched her as she stared at him, her dark eyes smothering, before she smiled sadly at him and left the room, her dark hair bouncing to the beat of her cocky gait.
“Where are you going?” Buffy asked.
Connor turned away from the door.
“What, you’re my parent, now?” he asked scathingly.
“No, I’m just bored,” she admitted. “What’s that you’re holding?”
“Nothing,” Connor said, trying to pull the piece of paper out of Buffy’s grasp. She unfolded the paper and curiously regarded the picture on it.
“This is a good drawing,” she said. It was a charcoal portrait; the girl smiled deviously and held a small hand close to a pendant that hung from her neck. She was pretty, Buffy thought.
“Who is she?”
“I don’t know,” Connor said. He snatched the paper back
“You draw like Angel does,” Buffy said, her voice sad. Connor sighed, taking in her sudden morose expression.
“Okay,” he said. “Come with me.”
“Explain-y?” Buffy said, energetic once more.
“I get visions,” Connor said, “from the Powers that Be. They give me warnings of danger, and of people who need help.”
Buffy blinked at him, considering this declaration. She nodded slowly, as though accepting what he said. “So that girl, she needs help?” she asked.
“Not quite,” Connor said. “I actually think it’s your friend Clark who needs the protecting. Do you know where he might be?”
“Clark can handle himself,” Buffy said skeptically. “He’s a big boy.”
“Yeah,” Connor agreed, “he does have very broad shoulders.” He swung his own narrow shoulders back and forth.
“What’s up with the girl, then?” Buffy asked. She motioned in the direction of Clark’s barn, and they began walking.
“I think,” Connor said slowly, “that she’s some sort of hypnotist.”
“A hypnotist?” Buffy asked, wrinkling her nose.
“The necklace,” Connor pointed to the picture, “has some sort of magic. She’s going to use it on Clark.”
“Whatever he does,” Buffy said with a sigh, “he’ll feel guilty in the morning.”
“Ever since I was little,” the girl from the photo said, “I’ve dreamed about my knight in shining armor.” She fixed Clark with a wide eyed, smoldering gaze. “Now that dream’s actually come true.” Suppressing a smile, she approached him, raising her chin to look into his face. She knew that she shouldn’t be having feelings for this boy, that he was just a job, but he was so eager, so pure, that she wanted, just once, to feel innocent again.
Their lips came together, and Simone closed her eyes. She let the feeling of the kiss wash away her sins, and for a second, she was only his. She put her hand around the back of his neck and pulled him closer, forced the kiss deeper; felt her heart jump as his hand settled into the small of her back.
She drew away from him, and let her eyes open.
“Take off your shirt,” she said, letting a devilish grin pass over her face. His expression barely shifted, but she could see that her obvious desire was feeding his ego, letting him become more of a person and less of an irresolute drone. His yearning for her, she hoped, might be real.
He took a step back and pulled his shirt over his head; Simone kept her eyes locked firmly with his.
“Your turn?” he asked shyly. She laughed softly at his daring and broke eye contact, finally letting herself look over his smooth chest. Turning away from him, she undid the snaps of her jacket and pulled it off, wiggling her arms out of the sleeves and dropping it to the floor in front of her. She was pleased to see that, when she looked back, his eyes were fixed on her.
Hesitating only a moment, she said, “Now take off the rest of your clothes.”
Not audacious enough, or perhaps able, to disobey, Clark started pulling off his pants, even as he protested. “Simone,” he said, “with my powers, I could hurt you.”
Simone looked at him, her newfound, innocent, well meaning farm-boy love. She needed him. Somehow, she thought, if she could have him, it would mean that she was forgiven. Clearly the scales of justice mattered little if a god such as this could fall into her lap.
“That’s a chance I’m willing to take,” she said.
They came together again. It seemed as though her words were exactly what Clark had been searching for, and his touch was suddenly unbridled; rough even. His fingers gripped almost painfully into her shoulder; the other hand traveled towards her skirt and slid it slowly down, following its path.
“Make love to me, Clark,” she said softly, almost like a dare.
She shuddered into his arms as he lifted her easily from the ground, letting his body take over hers, and for a moment she almost believed that he was the one in control.
She could almost convince herself that he really wanted her.
“Lana must be here,” Buffy said, pointing to the SUV in the driveway. “So this hypno-dealie, it doesn’t affect you?”
Connor shook his head. “It must have something to do with the vampire lineage,” Connor said thoughtfully. “The vision wasn’t real clear on the reasoning behind it.”
“So, you’ll just, what, run in there and kill the hypno-demon?” Buffy asked.
“No,” Connor exclaimed. “She’s human. I’m just going to get rid of her neckl—oomph!”
A small, dark figure had crashed, full speed, into Connor. He stumbled backward, but Buffy rushed forward, catching the apparent missile before it, too, fell.
It was Lana.
“Lana,” Buffy exclaimed. The girl was sobbing as though she’d just been told that the world was ending. For a moment, Buffy considered asking her if it actually was—after all, apocalypse and world-ending were not unexpected in Buffy’s life, but she thought that it might come off as a little sarcastic.
Curling up, Lana tried to sink to the floor, her legs no longer able to hold her up. Buffy moved her to the wall of the barn and slid down next to her, wrapping her arm around her shoulders.
“What is it, Lana?” she asked.
“Clark,” she said, sounding heartbroken, confused and angry.
“Lana,” Buffy said, “look at me.” She looked sternly into Lana’s swollen eyes, and said, “We think he’s been hypnotized. I don’t know what he did, but it probably wasn’t his fault. Connor’s going to deal with it.”
Trying his best to look regal, or at least warrior-like, Connor drew himself up as tall as he could, the light from the barn door flooding around his slender form. “Wish me luck, ladies,” he said in a mock-deep voice.
“Good luck,” Buffy said, her eyes wide and mockingly serious.
As Connor disappeared into the barn, Buffy turned back to Lana, and resigned herself to girlfriend-comforting duty.
Connor wasn’t surprised to see Clark and the girl from the photo making out on the couch. If he had the power to make anyone do whatever he wanted, he’d definitely use it to get chicks. He was disappointed, though, that he hadn’t been able to intercept the girl before this happened. His vision had been so vague that he hadn’t known where to start.
As he ascended the last of the stairs to the loft, Clark looked up from the blonde girl. His eyes were dark with obvious need for the girl beneath him on the couch and painfully indifferent for the sobbing girl outside his barn.
“This isn’t really a good time, Connor,” Clark said.
“No,” Connor agreed, “it’s a great time.”
He reached for Clark and threw him aside, not turning to watch as the larger boy crashed into the wall of his barn. He grabbed the blonde girl by the shoulders and drew her upright, looking into her eyes, daring her to try to snag him in her web.
Both their hands flew to the necklace.
“Let go of me,” she said, her voice low and seductive.
“No,” Connor said, a smirk crossing his face.
“Let go of Simone,” a deeper voice said. Connor turned around; Clark was standing over him. Connor felt himself lifted up, and he fought—his elbow hitting what felt like a solid wall of concrete—before he was thrown.
He hit the wall at a tremendous speed, and crashed through the brittle wood of the barn. He fell for what felt like forever. When he hit the ground, he let himself lie there for a moment. He wasn’t serious hurt, but there was no way that Clarkie-boy was human. He wished that someone would have warned him.
He started to run back around to the front of the barn. Buffy sat there with Lana, looking bored.
“You could have given me the heads up about your little farm-boy friend in there,” Connor started.
“Yeah, sorry,” Buffy said, looking panicked. “I should have warned you that his bare chest might have been a distraction.” Her eyes wide, they begged him not to elaborate. With a glance at Lana, Connor shrugged and rushed back into the barn.
He was a little shocked, this time, to discover that they were making out again. This girl just doesn’t give up, he thought, mentally giving her points for persistence.
“I thought I told you to leave us alone,” Clark said, his voice nearly a growl.
“No, actually, you didn’t,” Connor pointed out. “Though throwing me through the wall could have been taken as a hint.”
“So why didn’t you?” Clark asked, getting to his feet. Now that Connor knew how alarmingly strong the guy was, his broad shoulders were a bit intimidating.
“I’m more of a spell-it-out-for-me kinda guy,” Connor replied.
Clark started to reach for him, undoubtedly to punch a new Connor-shaped hole in his barn wall, but Connor managed to squirm just out of his grasp. Connor kicked out, catching the guy in the chin, and winced when contact was made. Though it had, from the grimace on Clark’s face, caused some damage, he wasn’t sure that it hadn’t hurt his foot a great deal more.
He glanced over at Simone; she was sitting up on the couch, watching the two of them with interest. She didn’t seem surprised at Clark’s demeanor or apparent invulnerability.
The gem of her necklace lay dormant on her chest.
Connor jumped into the air and kicked out, catching Clark in the face again. Without waiting, he leapt forward again, but this time, in a motion too quick to see, Clark ducked and caught the foot. Connor pushed off the ground with his free foot, reacting on instinct, and spinning his torso, hitting Clark’s neck with his free foot and managing to secure the freedom of his other one.
He landed awkwardly on one knee. Pushing off from the ground, he righted himself facing away from Clark and, with a fleeting look at the high ceilings of the loft, rocketed up from the ground. Putting as much power as he could into the jump, he felt his spine arching over Clark’s head, and saw Simone’s face come into view, upside down, on the other side.
His arms outstretched, he landed on his hands and pushed again, completing the movement so that he flew over Simone and the couch, too.
He landed, crouched, behind the girl and reached around her. He grabbed the necklace, ripping it from her neck and, without hesitating, smashed it to the ground.
The blue stone shattered; with a hissing noise, air charged towards it, momentarily upsetting his hair. A moment later, it was silent, barren, and broken, the pieces lying benign on the floor around his hand.
Slowly, he lifted his hand and looked, curiously, at the red center of the gem. As he stared at it, he realized that it was getting larger, and with a sudden jolt, he felt as though he fell into the red molten core.
He knew, though, that it wasn’t real. None of this was—but it would be.
A group of vampires, their faces dark and grotesque, huddled around a red, glowing fire. The fire danced and twitched like a normal fire, but the red was too deep, too unnatural to be anything but evil.
They chanted, and around them were five naked women, their throats viciously slit, the blood flowing towards the fire.
He felt as though he fell backward now, zooming out, so that the picture was smaller, less clear. He could see that they were surrounded by large explosives, and shining, green rocks.
“On the darkest night—the night in which even the dismal reflection of the sun refuses to shine in the sky—we will rise,” a thin, rasping voice chanted.
“On the darkest night,” a different voice repeated, “the blood of virgins will harden and pave the way for a new age.”
“On the darkest night,” a third voice said, “the blood will lead us.”
Many voices chimed in now, repeating the last line, muttering it as though transfixed—“The blood,” they said in discord, “the blood will lead us.”
“The blood will tear deep into the fabric of our dimension,” a loud, strong voice yelled. “And create for us an unholy opening that will be our very own,” he paused here, and the other vampires pushed closer, their excitement and enthusiasm apparent.
“It will be our very own,” he said, lowering his voice. “Our very own mouth to Hell.”