Go Straight Long Enough
AN: Was looking at BuffyCharmed's artwork series Slayer Who and stumbled across this little piece and got all inspired. Many thanks to her for the plot bunny. Shouldn't be too long of a fic, but I figured I'd put the first chapter up and see if anyone wanted to beta the rest of it for me. Takes place during Human Nature/Family of Blood for the Doctor, and Buffy comes from sometime during the Season 8 comics (when she's figured out British currency). Obviously, I own none of the characters, and eventually some of Paul Cornell's dialogue will be cribbed. My apologies, but this is just too much fun to be for profit. -MMoOo“Weeping angels?”
Buffy remembered the fear in Willow’s eyes when her friend gave the briefing. “That’s the form that they take, yeah. There’s at least three of them, maybe four, and they’re in this house. You’re going to want back up. Lots of it.”
Buffy hadn’t wanted to endanger that many girls. She set out with Satsu and five others. “Fourteen really speedy Slayer eyes, and we’ve all got nice shiny weapons. Still works if we see ‘em in mirrors, right?”
Willow had nodded. “Right. We’ll bust them up, and if that doesn’t work, have Xander order up a bunch of mirrors. Put enough of them around the house, eventually these creepy statue demons won’t be able to look anywhere without seeing each other, and we’ll be all be set. In stone even.”
Buffy really hoped that Plan B worked better than Plan A had. Plan A resulted in Buffy stuck in 1913. Buffy was not a fan of 1913. She'd never been a class warrior, but after three months, had decided she particularly hated England in 1913.
Buffy had expected a Willow rescue attempt by now.
Buffy was not even entirely sure that this was her
1913, given that this 1913 did not include a Watchers’ Council. She really wished that she’d paid just a weensy-bit more attention to Willow’s research into the Weeping Angels and whether or not the portals they opened were just temporal, or dimensional as well. Buffy was tossed out of the Drones’ Club, the group which occupied the space which should by all rights have been the Watchers’ Headquarters.
Buffy examined her pockets. She had only just figured out the decimalized version of British currency. She did not cry. She gritted her teeth.
Buffy, who had no references, no family connections, and an American accent, got a job.
Even when she was in high school, Buffy was never a huge fan of teenage boys, with the possible exception of Xander. None of the boys at Farringham School were even remotely Xander-shaped. And they had really, really, dirty boots that they tromped across floors she’d just cleaned, and Mr. Clean hadn’t even been born yet. Wanting to keep her job, Buffy did not break their miserable skulls. Instead, she scrubbed, saved, fended off the advances of Mr. Palmer, the creepy groundskeeper, and patrolled nightly against supernatural forces that never bothered to appear.
Mostly, Buffy waited for some sign that she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her life getting back to her own birth. At least once Martha joined the staff, Buffy had someone to talk to.