Diclaimer: I own nothing. Buffy belongs to Joss Whedon, Doctor Who and Torchwood to Davies/BBC. I make no money off this. Please do not distribute without my permission.
A/N: So, I shouldn't be starting another story. Yes. But. Anyway. Also, I don't really know where this is going yet, or what it wants from me. Stupid story just hijacked my fingers and has been using them willy nilly for the past two weeks. Shame on it. Expect something similar to Wish
in terms of chapters, length, etc. Also, thanks to Jezaeiri
for helping me figure this one out a bit.
Warnings: Since Jack is a part of this work of fiction, there will be sexual innuendo about anything with a pulse. And some things without. Deal with it. Also, this is two parts clusterfuck and one part mindfuck, pardon me French. You are warned. I reserve the right to wildly shuffle chapters around, give them funky names, traumatise characters and ignore Dr. Who canon since those stupid DVDs still haven't gotten here.
Chronological order from Cyberwoman
onward with whacky flashbacks in between.
She didn’t sleep as much as she had used to anymore, almost like the universe was spiting her, taking away her last reprieve from time. How many times had she considered pulling a Lestat and sleeping for a century or two? And every time she’d failed in the initial phase – falling asleep.
In the early days, she hadn’t minded so much. In the beginning just being off Earth, travelling through time and space, had been exiting enough to make her not notice how little she was sleeping. Working for the Time Agency, all the more or less to-rule fun she’d had. It had been distracting.
But then the Agency started going downhill and she had spent more and more time staying away until one day, she hadn’t returned at all. It was for the better.
When she’d met the Doctor, there had been more awe and action. Now, years into being a Companion, the excitement had waned off, leaving long hours in the TARDIS and not enough action for someone used to fighting to the death every night.
So Buffy spent a lot of time in her room inside the ship, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember what dreaming looked like. She could feel the TARDIS humming underneath her, could hear the Doctor’s messy whirlwind thoughts outside the door, caught snatches and glimpses of the worlds and times they passed, her mind reaching and stretching, through time, up and down an endless line of dead girls.
Human sacrifice, the Doctor said, was crude, but an effective source of power. Power that flowed in her veins, like time flowed in his. A gift, a curse, an inevitability. Like so many things in this universe.
And then she fell asleep.
Fell asleep and remembered how to dream like one remembers riding a bike – easily, effortlessly. She remembered and dreamed and the Doctor – in all his big eared, hook nosed glory - bent over her sleeping form and poked her in the side.
“Wake up,” he ordered, “Work to do.”
She glared balefully at him from one eye and said, “Not yet. We have to wait.”
He sat next to her, his expression thoughtful, trying to remember something he knew he should never have forgotten. “Wait for what? You already had coffee.”
“No,” she corrected him, “I haven’t. And triangles have three sides.”
He looked surprised, standing quickly, hand held out to her. “Are you sure?”
She took the hand and he pulled her to her feet with too much momentum, causing her to stumble into him. “Yes,” she said, getting annoyed, “Don’t they teach you anything back on Gallic Free?”
He opened his mouth, ready to correct her mispronunciation of his home planet’s name yet again when her eyes grew wide and she stepped past him into the bright desert sun. The sand felt hot under her bare toes. Where had her shoes gone?
She looked around, vaguely aware of the Doctor behind her. “Where are we?”
The high rocks, the endless dunes, occasional shrubs here and there, a black shadow flitting in and out of sight, women singing in the wind – “Home,” she told him and turned to smile at him.
He frowned, “I thought Home was that way?”
And he pointed to the left, where the desert melted into a star sparkling night of eternal indigo, planets burning, suns bursting. A whole universe, just above the horizon. Buffy shrugged.
“What’s that then?” He pointed again, this time with a thumb hooked over his shoulder and her gaze followed dutifully. Behind him, a bank of mist and fog obscured what lay beyond, making it impossible to guess at shapes and colours. A lost world. An undiscovered world. The third world.
She shrugged and offered, “He hasn’t moved in yet.”
Again, the Doctor looked at her quizzically, “Who is he?”
Buffy felt her own frown settling on her face as confusion crawled inside of her. Who was he?
At her feet, a small whirlwind picked up sand, beating it against her calves and ankles in tiny pinpricks and she found herself crouching down, running her hand across the ground in a soothing manner. The whirlwind dissipated and she sat down, motioning for the Doctor to sit next to her.
“Thanks,” he declined, “but I’ll stand. It doesn’t like me much.”
“Nonsense,” she complained and pulled him down like he had pulled her up – without a chance to resist. He landed in a disgraceful heap, spitting sand, glaring. She giggled.
“I like it better over there. Less dirt,” he remarked as he finally settled down. Her gaze followed his almost automatically, landing on the murky border between desert and space. She looked at the inky darkness of time flying by, bringing with it dying stars and newborn suns, and back down to the sand at her feet, merciless and hard to some, but always warm, always soft to her.
The lines between the two worlds were blurry and soft, interweaving in places, like lovers holding hands.
Unlike the other world, hidden in the mist, unreachable for either of the two beings sitting in the sand.
Who was beyond?
The answer came out of the fog. The third side.
Then she woke.
So, I'm kinda desperate for feedback. Help?